LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


C.} 


The  Cabinet  of  Irish   Literature 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/cabinetofirishli01read 


LAURENCE   STERNE 

After  the  Painfuig  by  SIR  JOSHUA   RE  YNOLDS 


/ijter  tiie  t^amtmg  oy  i>iK  juiinu^    jK/i,  yi\ui^u.:> 


The 

Cabinet  of  Irish  Literature 

Selections  from  the  Works  of 

The  Chief  Poets,  Orators,  and  Prose  Writers 

of  Ireland 

With  Biographical  Sketches  and  Literary  Notices  by 

CHARLES   A.  READ,  f.rh.s. 

Author  of  "Tales  and  Stories  of  Irish  Life"  "Stories  from  the  Ancient  Classics"  &c. 


NEW   EDITION 

Revised  and  greatly  Extended  by 

KATHARINE  TYNAN   HINKSON 

Author  of  "Poems"  "The  Dear  Irish  Girl"  "She  Walks  in  Beauty"  "A  Girl  of  Galway"  &c. 


Volume  I 


LONDON 
THE   GRESHAM    PUBLISHING   COMPANY 

34  SOUTHAMPTON  STREET,  STRAND 
1902 


PR 88S5 


Preface  to  the  Second  Edition 


The  Cabinet  of  Irish  Literature  was  first  published  in  the  early  eighties, 
at  a  moment  of  storm  and  stress  in  Ireland,  when  there  was  little  sign  of 
the  pleasant  industry  presently  to  be  in  the  field  of  literature.  So  many 
have  been  the  workers  since  then,  and  so  considerable  the  work,  that  it  is 
thought  fitting  that  a  new  edition  should  now  be  issued,  to  include  the  new- 
comers. In  arranging  this  new  edition  it  seemed  best  to  follow  the  manner  of 
the  old,  in  making  it  consist  of  the  same  number  of  parts  and  of  volumes.  To 
do  this  a  sifting  of  the  Cabinet  as  it  stood  was  necessary.  The  first  editor's 
scheme  had  included  a  good  many  names  which  seemed  to  the  present  editor  to 
belong  rather  to  other  forms  of  energy  than  to  that  of  literature.  She  has  fol- 
lowed her  own  judgment  in  excluding  a  good  many  of  the  early  inclusions,  which 
is  not  to  say  so  much  that  she  dissents  from  the  first  admirable  editor's  judg- 
ment, as  that  her  sympathies  necessarily  are  narrower.  Some  orators  have  gone 
because  she  thought  that  the  fire  had  died  out  of  the  speeches  with  the  passing 
of  the  man;  and  that  it  was  a  poor  service  to  represent  an  illustrious  name  by 
many  pages  of  dulness.  Many  military  memoirists  have  gone  because  their 
work  was  merely  special.  Many  divines,  because  their  discourses  failed  like  the 
speeches  of  the  orators,  or  because  they  appealed  only  to  special  circles.  The 
scholars  are  her  grief,  because  their  magnificent  work,  unless  they  were  poets 
and  story-tellers  as  well,  is  so  difficult  of  representation  in  a  book  for  popular 
reading;  and  one  has  to  let  them  stand  by  dry-as-dust.  Here  and  there  she  has 
added,  where  she  considered  that  a  poet  or  romancist  was  inadequately  repre- 
sented, and  taken  away  where  there  was  over-rejDresentation.  In  a  few  instances 
she  has  altered  the  quotations.  She  has  included  in  an  Appendix  the  names  of 
many  distinguished  writers,  an  extract  from  whose  work  did  them  little  justice. 
Otherwise,  except  in  the  mere  matter  of  detail,  the  Cabinet  stands  pretty  much 
as  it  was.  She  has  not  quarrelled  with  her  predecessor's  literary  opinions,  though 
she  has  often  not  agreed  with  them;  and  she  desires  to  be  held  responsible  only 
for  the  added  matter  of  the  new  edition. 


Preface  to  the  First  Edition 


A  Roman  historian  in  a  well-known  passage  rebuked  an  ancient  people  for 
ignorance  of  their  own  land  and  their  own  race.  Strong  as  is  the  attachment 
of  the  Irish  people  to  their  country,  they  cannot  be  wholly  acquitted  of  the 
same  charge.  It  is  only  within  the  last  half  century  that  a  real  attempt  has 
been  made  to  subject  early  Irish  literature  to  severe  and  systematic  investiga- 
tion; and  German  scholars  at  one  period  seemed  likely  to  anticipate  Irishmen 
in  the  study  of  the  Celtic  tongue.  The  rise  of  men  like  O'Donovan,  O'Curry, 
Petrie,  and  others,  fortunately  averted  this  national  discredit,  and  an  impetus 
has  now  been  given  to  Celtic  research  which,  so  to  speak,  secures  the  future  of 
that  department  of  Irish  literature. 

But  it  is  not  the  ancient  literature  or  the  elder  generations  of  Irish  litterateurs 
that  alone  have  been  neglected  by  the  Irish  people.  There  are  few  Irishmen, 
I  venture  to  think,  who  have  any  conception  of  the  number  of  well-known 
literary  names  which  belong  to  Ireland.  Accustomed  to  read  and  hear  of 
many  writers  as  belonging  to  English  literature,  we  are  liable  to  forget  their 
connection  with  Ireland;  and  thus  many  eminent  authors  pass  for  being  English 
who  were  born  on  Irish  soil. 

Apart,  however,  from  this  consideration,  the  want  has  long  been  felt  for  a 
work  in  which  the  prose,  the  poetry,  and  the  oratory  of  great  Irishmen  might 
be  found  in  a  collected  and  accessible  form.  Such  a  book  is  primarily  necessary 
for  the  purpose  of  enabling  the  literary  history  of  Ireland  to  be  traced  in  a 
systematic  manner;  and  not  the  literary  history  only,  but  also  the  historical  and 
social  development  of  the  people.  In  Ireland,  as  in  other  countries,  literature  is 
the  mirror  wherein  the  movements  of  each  epoch  are  reflected,  and  the  study 
of  literature  is  the  study  of  the  cotmtry  and  the  people.  Most  Irishmen,  more- 
over, have  felt  the  desire  for  a  work  in  which  they  could  readily  find  access  to 
the  gems  of  literary  effort  which  rest  in  their  memory,  and  would  be  gladly  seen 
again. 

I  have  made  ample  confession  of  the  neglect  of  Irish  literature  among  Irish- 
men themselves,  and  with  the  greater  freedom  I  can  make  complaint  of  the 
astonishing  ignorance  of  Irish  literature  among  Englishmen.  It  is  no  exagger- 
ation to  say  that  many  London  writers  of  comparatively  small  importance  are 
better  known  than  some  Irish  writers  of  genius. 

So  much  for  the  ideas  which  led  to  this  Work;  I  now  pass  on  to  the  plan 
on  which  it  has  been  prepared.  As  will  be  seen,  a  biographical  sketch  is  first  given 
of  each  author,  and  this  is  followed  by  selections  from  his  works.  The  memoirs 
are  not,  as  a  rule,  of  great  length,  for  the  book  is  meant  to  be  a  cabinet  of  literature 
and  not  a  biographical  dictionary.  In  the  selection  of  extracts  the  choice  has 
been  guided  by  a  desire  to  present  those  specimens  of  an  author  which  best 


iv  PREFACE 

illustrate  his  style.  Other  considerations  had  also  to  be  taken  into  account.  It 
would  be  obviously  absurd  to  give  a  passage  which  was  not  intelligible  without 
full  knowledge  of  all  by  which  it  was  preceded  or  followed.  As  a  consequence 
it  was  necessary  to  seek  for  an  extract  which  stood  out  in  something  like  relief, 
and  which  required  no  acquaintance  with  the  context,  or  only  such  acquaintance 
as  could  be  conveyed  in  a  short  preliminary  note.  This  consideration  has  neces- 
sitated occasionally  the  selection  of  passages  which  were  not,  perhaps,  the  most 
brilliant  in  the  author's  works.  Finally,  it  has  been  the  constant  aim  to  avoid 
the  quotation  of  anything  that  had  become  hackneyed  or  that  could  wound  the 
feelings  or  offend  the  taste  of  any  class  or  creed. 

As  will  be  seen  from  the  final  memoir  in  the  last  volume,  I  have  had  no  large 
share  in  the  preparation  of  the  Work.  Well  nigh  the  whole  of  the  first  three 
volumes  were  prepared  by  the  late  Mr.  Read,  whose  life-history  Mr.  Charles  Gibbon 
has  so  touchingly  told,  and  were  carried  through  the  press  by  Mrs.  Read,  who 
supplemented  by  various  contributions  what  was  necessary  to  their  completion. 
I  am  responsible  for  the  fourth  volume  only. 

Finally,  Mrs.  Read  unites  with  me  in  thanking  the  many  authors  and  publishers 
who  have  so  readily  and  courteously  accorded  permission  to  use  extracts  from 
the  various  works  quoted. 

T.  P.  O'CONNOR,  M.A. 


Contents  of  Volume  I 


PAGE 

Introduction, xi 

Early  Irish  Writers — 

Geoffry  Keating  (i5ro-i650), xxv 

Michael  O'Clery  (I680-1643),  xxv 

James  Usher  (laso-ieso), xxvi 

Maurice  Fitzgerald  (dr.  1C12),  xxix 

Sir  James  Ware  (1594-1G66),   xxix 

Maurice  Dugan  (dr.  i04i), xxx 

Richard  Stanihurst  (isis-igis), xxxi 

LuDoviCK  Barry  (dr.  icu), xxxi 

Teige  Macdaire  (1.570-1G5O),     xxxi 

Duald  MacFirbis  (isss-  167o), xxxi 

Nicholas  French  (I604-1678),  xxxii 

Roderic  O'Flaherty  (1628-1718), xxxii 

William  Molyneux  (igoG-icos),  xxxiii 

Nahum  Tate  (1652-1715),  xxxv 

Nicholas  Brady  (1659-172G), xxxv 

Andrew  Magrath  (1723-      ),    xxxv 

Sir  John  Denham  (ioi5-i6G'j), 1 

Cooper's  Hill, 2 

Of  a  Future  Life, 3 

To  Sir  Richard  Fanshawe, 4 

On  Cowley's  Death, 4 

Owen  Ward  (icoo-igio),    5 

Lament  for  the  Tyroniau  and  Tyrconnellian 
Princes, 5 

Richard  Flecknoe  (160o-1678),    7 

Silence, 7 

Of  Drinking, 7 

On  Travel, 8 

To  Dryden, 8 

On  the  Death  of  Our  Lord, 8 

Extract  from  "  Love's  Kingdom  ",  .     ...  8 

One  Wlio  Turns  Day  into  Night,     ....  8 

A  Sower  of  Dissension, 9 

Roger  Boyle,  Earl  of  Orrery  (1621-1679),...      9 

On  Christmas  Day, 10 

On  the  Day  of  the  Crucifixion, 10 

The  Hon.  Mrs.  Monk  (1677-i715), 11 

On  Providence, 11 

On  a  Statue  of  a  Lady, 11 

Epitaph  on  a  Gallant  Lady, 11 

Orpheus  and  Eurydice, 11 

Runaway  Love, 12 


FAGK 

Earl  of  Roscommon  (i 633-1684), 13 

The  Day  of  Judgment, 14 

Ode  upon  Solitude, 14 

Imitation  of  Twenty-Second  Ode,  First  Book 

of  Horace, 1.5 

Essay  on  Translated  Verse, 15 

The  Hon.  Robert  Boyle  (i626-169i), 16 

Fishing  with  a  Counterfeit  Fly, 17 

On  a  Glow-worm  in  a  Phial, 18 

Thomas  Duffet  (dr.  i67g),  19 

Since  Coelia's  my  Foe, 19 

Come  all  you  Pale  Lovers, 19 

Uncertain  Love, 20 

George  Farquhar  (ig78-1707), 20 

A  Woman  of  Quality, 21 

A  Gentlemanly  Caning, 23 

The  Counterfeit  Footman, 24 

Father  and  Son, 25 

Count  Hamilton  (i64g-i72o),   27 

Porti-ait  of  Grammont, 28 

Fiddlestick, 28 

The  Enchanter  Faustus, 33 

Thomas  Parnell  (1679-1717),    35 

A  Fairy  Tale, 36 

The  Hermit, 38 

Robert  Viscount  Molesworth  (1606-1725),...  40 

The  Court  of  Denmark, 41 

SUSANNNA   CeNTLIVRE   (16G7-1723), 43 

The  Busybody, 43 

Marplot's  Cleverness, 44 

Miss  Lovely  and  her  Guardians,       ....  45 

Father  and  Daughter, 49 

John  O'Neachtan  (dr.  1695-1720),  51 

Maggie  Laidir, 51 

A  Lament, 52 

Sir  Richard  Steele  (1072-1729), 53 

The  Ci^^l  Husband, 55 

Inkle  and  Yarico, 56 

Sir  Roger  de  Coverley's  Wooing,     ....  58 

Charity, 60 

The  Old  Style  and  the  New, 62 

A  Romantic  Young  Lady, 63 

Mrs.  Constantia  Grierson  (1706-1733), 67 

At  a  Country  Assize, 67 


CONTENTS   OF  VOLUME  I. 


PAGE 

William  Congheve  (1672-1729),    68 

Amoret, 69 

Letter  to  a  Friend, 69 

Talking  of  Lovers, 69 

Settling  the  Contract, 71 

A  Literary  Lady, 72 

Extracts  from  "  The  Mourning  Bride ",    .     .  73 

TUBLOUGH   O'CaROLAN   (1670-1738),     73 

Peggy  Browne, 75 

Gentle  Brideen, 75 

Bridget  Cruise, 75 

Why,  Liquor  of  Life  ? 76 

Grace  Nugent, 77 

Mild  Mabel  Kelly, 77 

O'JIore's  Fair  Daughter, 77 

Jonathan  Swift  (1667-1745), 78 

Extract  from  "  The  Journal  to  Stella",    .     .  84 

On  the  Death  of  Mrs.  Johnson, 84 

Thoughts  on  Various  Subjects, 88 

Prometheus, 90 

Wishes  and  Realities, 91 

The  Happy  Life  of  a  Country  Parson,      .     .  92 

Stella's  Birthday, 92 

In  Sickness, 93 

The  Furniture  of  a  Woman's  Mind,      ...  93 

Lawyers, 94 

Samuel  Boyse  (1708-1749), 94 

Hope's  Farewell, 96 

The  Home  of  Content, 96 

The  Golden  Rule, 97 

Justice,  Why  Blind? 97 

Sir  Hans  Sloane  (1660-1752), 98 

The  Coco  Tree, 99 

Thomas  Southerne  (1660-1746),   100 

Extract  from  "  Oroonoko  ", 100 

Matthew  Concanen  (died  1749), 103 

The  Advice, 103 

A  Love  Song, 104 

October  Ale, 104 

Cupid's  Revenge, 104 

The  Football  Match, 105 

Bishop  Berkeley  (1684-1753),  106 

On  America, 107 

LaETITIA  PiLKINGTON  (1712-1750), 108 

Mrs.  Pilkington's  Patrons, 108 

Expostulation, HO 

Contentment, HO 

Written  on  her  Death-bed, HI 

John  Boyle,  Earl  of  Cork  (1707-1762),  Ill 

Mrs.  Muzzy  on  Duelling, 112 


TAGK 

John  MacDonnell  (1691-1754),    113 

Granu  Wail  and  Queen  Elizabeth,  ....   113 

Claragh's  Lament, 114 

Old  Erin  in  the  Sea, 114 

Claragh's  Dream, 115 

Charles  Molloy  (1706-1707),    116 

Miser  and  Maid, 117 

A  Candid  Beauty, 118 

Mrs.  Barber  (1712-1757),  119 

Apology  for  the  Rich, 120 

The  Oak  and  the  Ivy, 120 

Stella  and  Flavia, 120 

Laurence  Sterne  (1713-1768),  121 

Widow  Wadman's  Eye, 122 

The  Bastile  v.  Liberty, 123 

The  Story  of  Yorick, 124 

The  Story  of  Le  Fevre, 128 

Philip  Francis  (1719-1773),  131 

Horace's  Epistle  to  Aristius  Fuscus  in  Praise 
of  a  Country  Life, 131 

John  Cunningham  (1729-1773) 132 

Morning, 132 

Noon, 133 

Evening, 133 

The  Ant  and  the  Caterpillar, 133 

The  Holiday  Gown, 134 

A  Pastoral, 134 

Patrick  Delany  (lese-nos),    135 

The  Duties  of  a  Wife, 136 

The  Duty  of  Paying  Debts, 138 

Frances  Sheridan  (1724-1766) 141 

Ode  to  Patience, 141 

A  Wonderful  Lover, 142 

A  Romantic  Love  Match, 144 

Oliver  Goldsmith  (1728-1774), 147 

The  Deserted  Village 152 

Switzerland  and  France, 156 

Description  of  an  Author's  Bed-chamber,      .  157 

Hope, 157 

The  Budding  Rose, 157 

Extracts  from  "  The  Good-natured  Man",    .   157 

Mrs.  Hardcastle, 161 

The  Gentleman  in  Black, 163 

Advice  to  the  Ladies, 166 

The  Vicar's  Home, 167 

Moses  at  the  Fair, 169 

A  City  Night  Piece 171 

Hugh  Kelly  (1739-1777),  172 

In  Debt  and  in  Danger, 173 

A  Hollow  Victory, 175 

Extract  from  "Thespis", 177 

All  Her  Own  Way, 177 


CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  I. 


James  Delacour  (iroo-mi), 179 

How  Lovo  was  Born, 180 

Euphrates, 1^0 

A  Moonlit  Night, ISO 

How  to  Praise, 1^0 

The  Poor  Poet, 180 

On  Seeing  a  Lady  at  an  Opposite  Window,  .  181 


William  Havakd  (1710-1778),  181 

Charles  I.  in  Prison, 182 

Fairfax  and  Cromwell, 


182 


Kane  O'Haka  (d.  1782),    184 

A  Most  Tragical  Tragedy, 185 

Pan's  Song  to  Apollo, 186 

Push  about  the  Jorum, 186 

Thomas  Leland  (1722-1785), 186 

The  Battle  of  Aughrim, 187 

Henry  Brooke  (i706-i7S3),   189 

Essex  and  Elizabeth, 190 

Essex  and  Nottingham, 190 

Gone  to  Death, 191 

Nature's  Skill  and  Care, 192 

Francis  Gentleman  (1728-1734), 193 

The  Birthday, 193 

Two  Opposites, 194 

Thomas  Sheridan  (mi-nss), 196 

Captain  O'Blunder :  a  Farce, 197 

General  Burgotne  (cir.  1728-1792), 199 

The  Lady  and  the  Cynic, 200 

An  Old  Rascal 201 

Kural  Simplicity, 203 

Charlotte  Brooke  (mo- 1793),    205 

To  a  Warrior, 205 

Oh,  Give  me  Sight ! 205 

Henry  Flood  (1732-1791), 206 

Flood's  Reply  to  Grattan's  Invective,  .     .     .  208 

A  Defence  of  the  Volunteers, 210 

On  a  Commercial  Treaty  with  France,      .     .  211 
Extract  from  "  Pindaric  Ode  to  Fame",  .     .  212 

Charles  Macklin  (1000-1797), 213 

A  Mischief-maker, 214 

How  to  get  on  in  the  World, 215 

A  Bevy  of  Lovers, 218 

Walter  Hussey  Burgh  (1742-1783),  220 

Extract  from  Speech  on  Money  Grant,     .     .  222 

The  Wounded  Bird, 222 

See !  Wicklow's  Hills 222 

The  Toupee, 223 

Edmund  Burke  (1730-1797),  223 

Gradual  Variation, 226 

Queen  Marie  Antoinette, 227 


Extracts  from  the  Impeachment  of  Warren 

Hastuigs, 228 

Chatham  and  Townshend, 232 

The  Desolation  of  the  Camatic,       ....  233 

Elizabeth  Ryves  (d.  1797), 234 

Ode  to  SensibiUty, 235 

Ode  to  Friendship, 235 

Song, 235 

The  Sylph  Lover, •^«' 

Extract  from  "  The  Hermit  of  Snowden",    .  236 

Theobald  Wolfe  Tone  (i7C3-i798),   236 

Essay  on  the  State  of  Ireland  in  1720,      .     •  239 
Interviews  with  Buonaparte, 241 

Charles  Johnstone  (1719-1800),  243 

Poet  and  Publisher, 243 

Isaac  Bickerstafk  (1735-1800),    245 

A  Noble  Lord, 246 

Hoist  with  his  own  Petard 247 

Mr.  Mawworm, 249 

Two  Songs, 250 

What  are  Outward  Forms? 251 

251 


Hope, 


Thomas  Dermody  (1775-1802),  251 

When  I  sat  by  my  Fair, 253 

Evening  Star,       253 

The  Sensitive  Linnet, 254 

Jealousy, -_ 

Lines  to  the  Countess  of  Moira, 254 

Contentment  in  Adversity 254 


On  Songs, 


255 


Robert  Jephson  (1736-1803),    2o5 

A  Mighty  Fighter, 256 

Most  Seeming  False, 


257 


Joseph  Cooper  Walker  (1747-1810),  260 

Dress  of  the  Ancient  Irish, 261 

Arthur  Murphy  (1727-1805),    264 

How  to  Fall  Out, 265 

Edward  Lysaght  (1763-1810),  266 

Kate  of  Garnavilla, 266 

The  Sprig  of  Shillelah, 267 

Our  Island, 267 

Sweet  Chloo, 268 

Thy  Spirit  is  from  Bondage  Free,   ....  268 

To  Henry  Grattan, 268 

Kitty  of  Coleraine, 269 

Robert  Emmet  (1778-1803) 269 

Last  Speech, -/O 

Lines  on  the  Burying-ground  of  Arbour  Hill, 
Dublin, 273 

The  Hon.  George  Ogle  (1739-1814),  274 

The  Banks  of  Banna, 274 

Banish  Sorrow, 274 

Molly  Astore, 274 


CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  I. 


PAGE 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan  (mi-isiB), 275 

Bob  Acres'  Duel, 278 

The  Money-hunter, 2S2 

The  Happiest  Couple, 284 

An  Art  Sale, 285 

Sir  Fretful  Plagiary's  Play, 287 

The  Desolation  of  Oude, 289 

Drinking  Song, 290 

By  CffiUa's  Ai-bour, 290 

Mrs.  Mary  Tighe  (m2-i8io), 290 

Praise  of  Love, 291 

Sympathy, 292 

TheLUy, 292 

Calm  Delight, 293 

Edmund  Malone  (1741-1812),    293 

The  Early  Stage, 294 

Ancient  Moralitiet  and  Mysteries,  ....  295 
Stage  Scenery, 296 


PAOE 

Andrew  Cherry  (ir62-i8i2), 297 

Two  of  a  Trade, 298 

Desperate  Rivals, 299 

Famed  for  Deeds  of  Arms, 301 

The  Green  Little  Shamrock  of  Ireland,    .     .  301 

The  Bay  of  Biscay, 301 

Tom  Moody, 302 

Richard  Alfred  Millikin  (1707-1315), 302 

The  Groves  of  Blarney, 303 

Convivial  Song, 304 

A  Prologue, 304 

Sir  Philip  Francis — Junius  (1740-I8I8),  304 

Letter  LVn.— To  the  Duke  of  Grafton,     .     .  306 

William  Drennan,  m.d.  (1754-1820),  308 

The  Wake  of  William  Orr, 309 

When  Erin  first  rose, 309 

0  sweeter  than  the  fragrant  Flower,    .     .     .  310 

The  Wild  Geese, 310 

My  Father, 310 

A  Song  from  the  Irish, 311 


List  of  Illustrations 


PAOS 

Laurence  Sterne — After  the  painting  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds, .frontispiece 

A  Gentlemanly  Caning, 24 

Sir  Richard  Steele — After  the  painting  by  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller,  54 

Talking  of  Lovers,  70 

Jonathan  Swift — After  the  painting  by  Markham,  78 

"My  Uncle  Toby  sat  himself  down  upon  the  chair  by  the  bed-side", 130 

Oliver  Goldsmith — After  the  painting  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds, 148 

Edmund  Burke — After  the  painting  by  G.  Romney,  224 

A  Noble  Lord,  247 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan — After  the  painting  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  276 


INTEODUCTION. 


Literature  in  ancient  Ireland  seems  to  have  been  the  enviable  profession.  The 
person  of  the  bard  was  as  sacred  as  the  person  of  the  priest,  and,  like  the  priest, 
the  bard  called  down  lightnings  on  those  who  offended  him.  It  was  a  less  easy 
profession,  as  befitted  one  so  privileged,  than  it  is  nowadays,  when  staff  and  scrip, 
or  pen,  inkhorn,  and  fair  white  paper,  are  the  only  equipment,  plus  brains  more  or 
less.  The  old  bard,  the  old  story-teller,  trained  worthily  for  a  noble  profession ;  the 
profession  of  letters  indeed,  it  deserved  its  stately  title.  There  was  no  monstrous 
regiment  of  ready  Avriters  in  those  days.  The  craft  had  vigil  and  ordeal  like  any 
knighthood,  and  was  protected  by  its  pains.  Nowadays  literature  is  the  easiest  of 
all  the  professions,  as  it  is  the  most  open,  the  most  unprotected,  and  the  most 
saddled  with  incompetence.  Dr.  Douglas  Hyde,  the  true  brother  of  the  ancient 
great  scholars,  in  his  monumental  Irish  Literary  History,  tells  us  how  an  ollamh  or 
chief  bard,  Avas  made.  He  had  to  know  by  word  of  mouth  three  hundred  and  fifty 
romances.  It  took  him  from  nine  to  twelve  years'  time  to  learn  the  two  hundred 
and  fifty  prime  stories,  the  hundred  secondary  ones,  and  the  lesser  matters  that 
became  a  bard.  The  prime  stories,  combinations  of  novel  and  epic,  prose  and  poetr}', 
ranged  over  the  folloAving  subjects: — Destruction  of  fortified  places,  cow-spoils  {i.e. 
cattle -raiding  expeditions),  courtships,  battles,  cave-stories,  navigations,  tragical 
deaths,  feasts,  sieges,  adventui;es,  elopements,  slaughters,  water-eruptions,  expeditions, 
progresses,  and  feasts.  The  bards  were  trained  in  bardic  colleges,  which  survived, 
Dr.  Hyde  tells  us,  though  with  greatly  diminished  prestige,  till  nearly  the  end  of 
the  seventeenth  century.  He  describes  these  schools  or  colleges  in  a  passage  so 
interesting  that  I  transcribe  it. 

"  The  session  of  the  bardic  schools  began  about  Michaelmas,  and  the  youthful 
aspirants  to  bardic  glory  came  trooping  about  that  season  from  all  quarters  of  the 
four  provinces  to  ofter  with  trembling  hearts  their  gifts  to  the  ollamh  of  the  bardic 
college,  and  to  take  possession  of  their  new  quarters.  .  .  .  The  college  usually 
consisted  of  a  long  low  group  of  whitewashed  buildings,  excessively  warmly 
thatched,  and  lying  in  the  hollow  of  some  secluded  valley,  or  shut  in  by  a  sheltering 
wood,  far  removed  from  noise  of  human  traffic  and  the  bustle  of  the  great  Avorld. 
But  what  most  struck  the  curious  beholder  was  the  entire  absence  of  windows  or 
partitions  over  the  greater  portion  of  the  house.  According  as  each  student  arrived 
he  was  assigned  a  windowless  room  to  himself,  with  no  other  furniture  in  it  than  a 
couple  of  chairs,  a  clothes-rail,  and  a  bed.  When  all  the  students  had  arrived,  a 
general  examination  of  them  was  held  by  the  professors  and  ollamhs,  and  all  who 
could  not  read  and  Avrite  Irish  well,  or  who  appeared  to  have  an  indifferent  memory, 
were  usually  sent  away.  The  others  were  divided  into  classes,  and  the  mode  of 
procedure  was  as  follows.  The  students  were  called  together  into  the  great  hall  or 
sitting-room,  amply  illuminated  by  candles  and  bog-torches,  and  we  may  imagine  the 


xii  INTRODUCTION. 

head  oUamh  addressing  them  upon  their  chosen  profession,  and  finally  proposing 
some  burning  topic  for  the  higher  class  to  compose  a  poem  on,  while  for  the  second 
class  he  sets  one  more  commonplace.  .  .  .  The  students  retired  after  their  break- 
fasts to  their  own  warm,  but  perfectly  dark  compartments,  to  throw  themselves  each 
upon  his  bed,  and  there  think  and  compose  till  supper-hour,  when  a  servant  came 
round  to  all  the  rooms  with  candles,  for  each  to  write  down  what  he  had  composed. 
They  were  then  called  together  into  the  great  hall,  and  handed  in  their  written 
compositions  to  their  professors,  after  which  they  chatted  and  amused  themselves  till 
bed-time.  On  every  Saturday,  and  the  eve  of  every  holiday,  the  schools  broke  up, 
and  the  students  dispersed  themselves  over  the  country.  They  were  always  gladly 
received  by  the  land-owners  of  the  neighbourhood,  and  treated  hospitably  till  their 
return  on  the  Monday  morning.  The  people  of  the  district  never  failed  to  send  in, 
each  in  turn,  lai'ge  supplies  to  the  college,  so  that  between  this  and  the  presents 
brought  by  the  students  at  the  beginning  of  the  year,  the  professors  are  said  to  have 
been  fairly  rich.  The  schools  always  broke  up  on  the  25th  of  March,  and  the 
holidays  lasted  for  six  months,  it  not  being  considered  judicious  to  spend  the  warm 
part  of  the  year  in  the  close  college,  from  which  all  light  and  air-draughts  had  been 
so  carefully  excluded." 

Great  was  the  power  of  the  bards  with  the  lords  and  chiefs  who  were  their 
patrons  and  fosterers.  The  anger  of  a  bard  was  almost  as  terrible  as  the  anger 
of  a  saint;  and  their  songs  could  make  men's  blood  run  like  lava  through  their 
veins.  One  remembers  that  gallant  Geraldine,  Silkur  Thomas,  nearly  turned  from 
the  rebellion  that  was  his  ruin  by  the  tender  wisdom  of  the  aged  chancellor,  till  his 
Irish  harper,  breaking  into  an  impassioned  chant  upon  the  glories  of  the  Geraldines, 
maddened  him  anew  against  the  king,  and  in  his  crusade  "for  valiantesse  and 
liberty ".  Long  afterwards,  when  the  Irish  harpers  were  under  protection  in  the 
houses  of  the  gentry,  there  occurred  this  delightful  passage  between  O'Carolan,  or 
Carolan,  the  last  of  the  bards,  and  M'Cule,  another  harper  in  the  house  of  Charles 
O'Conor  of  Belnagar,  whither  he  had  wandered  in  his  blindness.  "I  think",  said 
Carolan,  as  his  fingers  strayed  over  the  harp-strings,  "that  I  must  be  in  the  house 
of  O'Conor,  for  the  harp  has  the  old  fire  in  it."  "  Nay,"  replied  M'Cule,  "  but  your 
soul  has  the  old  madness  in  it." 

But,  reverenced  and  feared  as  they  were  among  their  own  people,  they  were 
hunted  down  as  mercilessly  as  wolves  by  those  who  desired  the  subjection  or  de- 
struction of  the  island  race.  By  the  Statute  of  Kilkenny  it  was  made  penal  for  the 
English  settlers  "  to  entertain  the  bards,  who  perverted  the  imagination  by  romantic 
tides  ".  Dangerous  fellows,  who  not  only  influenced  the  Irish,  but  made  the  English, 
suckled  at  the  breast  of  that  softest  of  motherlands,  more  Irish  than  the  Irish !  Henry 
Tudor,  though  he  quartered  the  harp  of  Ireland  in  the  arms  of  England,  was  a  bitter 
enemy  to  the  Irish  bards.  "Elizabeth,"  says  that  fine  historian,  Mrs.  Atkinson, 
"albeit  showing  a  decided  preference  for  the  Irish  tunes  as  performed  at  court  galas, 
ferociously  pursued  in  Ireland  the  bards  and  rhymers,  placing  them  in  the  same 
category  as  monks,  friars,  Jesuits,  and  such  like,  as  'a  traitorous  kind  of  people'. 
Cromwell's  soldiers  broke  the  harp  wherever  they  found  it." 

To  the  power  of  this  bardic  instrument  are  many  testimonies.  Giraldus  Cam- 
brensis,  who  had  no  love  for  these  traitor  harpers,  wrote:  "They  are  incomparably 
more  skilful  than  any  other  nation  I  have  ever  seen.  They  delight  so  delicately, 
and  soothe  with  such  gentleness,  that  the  perfection  of  their  art  appears  in  the 


INTRODUCTION.  xiii 

concealment  of  art."  Dante  had  an  Irish  harp,  and  deh'ghted  in  its  construc- 
tion. "No  harp  hath  a  sound  so  melting  and  prolonged  as  the  Irish  harp",  said 
Lord  Bacon.  While  Evelyn,  after  listening  to  the  performance  of  his  friend  Clerk 
on  the  Irish  harp,  says:  "Such  music  before  or  since  did  I  never  hear";  and  goes 
on  to  declare  this  neglected  instrument  far  superior  to  the  lute  itself,  or  Avhatever 
speaks  with  strings. 

But  all  that  was  later.  The  splendour  of  the  hards  was  swept  away  in  that 
war  of  extermination  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  day  that  destroyed  the  Desmonds,  and 
left  Munster  the  place  of  desolation  which  Spenser  described  so  terribly.  The 
bards  were  as  little  to  be  spared  as  any  Desmond  of  them.  Their  songs  and 
stories  made  men's  hearts  rebellious,  and  they  were  very  hot^gospellers  of  sedition. 
So,  enactments  of  Elizabeth's  reign  were  directed  against  them.  The  nobles  were 
forbidden  to  entertain  them,  in  the  hope  that  they  might  starve  and  die  out. 
"Item,"  says  the  Act,  "for  that  those  rhymours  by  their  ditties  and  rhymes  made 
to  divers  lords  and  gentlemen  in  Ireland  to  the  commendation  and  high  praise  of 
extortion,  rebellion,  rape,  ravin,  and  other  injustice,  encourage  those  lords  and 
gentlemen  rather  to  follow  those  vices  than  to  leave  them,  and  for  making  of  the 
said  rhymes  rewards  are  given  by  the  said  lords  and  gentlemen,  for  abolishing  of 
so  heinous  an  abuse  orders  be  taken."  "Orders  were  taken,  and  taken  so 
thoroughly,"  says  Dr.  Hyde,  "that  O'Brien,  Earl  of  Thomond,  obliged  to  enforce 
them  against  the  bards,  hanged  three  distinguished  poets."  Nor  were  the  bards 
more  mercifully  treated  by  some  whose  sympathy  they  should  ha-\'e  had.  Spenser, 
who  was  in  Ireland  as  a  soldier  of  fortune,  and  had  his  share  of  the  Desmond 
inheritance,  has  no  good  to  say  of  his  Irish  brother.  "There  are",  he  writes, 
"among  the  Irish  a  certain  kind  of  people  called  bards,  the  which  are  had  in  so 
high  regard  and  estimation  among  them  that  none  dare  displease  them,  for  fear 
to  run  into  reproach  through  their  offence,  and  to  be  made  infamous  in  the 
mouths  of  all  men."  Upon  which  his  friend  Eudoxus  remarks  that  he  had  thought 
poets  persons  rather  to  be  encouraged  than  to  be  put  down.  To  which  the  poet 
replies:  "Yes,  they  should  be  encouraged  when  they  desire  honour  and  virtue;  but 
these  Irish  bards  are  for  the  most  part  of  another  mind,  and  so  far  from  instructing 
young  men  in  moral  discipline,  that  whomsoever  they  find  to  be  most  licentious  of 
life,  most  bold  and  lawlesse  in  his  doings,  most  dangerous  and  desperate  in  all  parts  of 
disobedience  and  rebellious  disposition,  him  they  set  up  and  glorify  in  their  rhythmes, 
him  they  praise  to  the  people,  and  to  young  men  make  an  example  to  follow". 
"Tell  me,  I  pray  you,"  asks  Eudoxus,  "have  they  any  art  in  their  compositions,  or 
be  they  anything  wittie  and  well-mannered  as  poems  should  be'?"  "Yea  truly," 
answers  the  author  of  Epithalamium,  the  most  beautiful  of  all  marriage  poems,  "  I 
have  caused  divers  of  them  to  be  translated  unto  me  that  I  might  understand  them, 
and  surely  they  savoured  of  sweet  art  and  good  invention,  but  skilled  not  in  the 
goodly  ornaments  of  poesie,  yet  were  they  sprinkled  with  some  pretty  flowers  of 
their  natural  device,  which  gave  good  grace  and  comeliness  unto  them ;  the  which  it 
is  a  great  pity  to  see  abused  to  the  gracing  of  wickedness  and  vice  which  with  good 
usage  would  serve  to  adorn  and  beautify  virtue."  Spenser's  indictment  against  the 
morals  of  the  bards  may  pass.  He  was  an  enemy  writing  of  enemies,  and  no  doubt 
it  is  the  gist  of  his  arguments  against  them  that  their  poems  are  tending  for  the 
most  part  to  the  hurt  of  the  English  or  maintenance  of  their  own  "IcAvde  libertie, 
they  being  most  desirous  thereof".     Dr.  Hyde  says  he  has  read  many  hundreds  of 


xiv  INTRODUCTION. 

the  poems  written  by  the  bards  in  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries,  but  has 
never  come  across  a  single  syllable  in  praise  of  "extortion,  rape,  ravin,  and  other 
injustice",  though  many  inciting  to  rebellion. 

One  has  a  curiosity  about  these  poems  which  Spenser  had  translated  to  him. 
That  they  deserved  his  praises  at  least,  one  believes,  reading  some  of  them  in 
Dr.  Sigerson's  masterly  Bards  of  the  Gael  and  the  Gall,  and  the  translations  of 
Mangan  and  others.  Mangan  no  doubt  translated  freely,  and  may  well  have  given 
us  sometimes  a  poem  more  precious  than  he  found;  but  the  two  of  his  poems  in 
which  his  inspiration  is  most  certain,  by  which  his  genius  stands  as  something 
more  than  an  idle  report — for  Irish  criticism  of  poetry  especially  is  not  to  be 
trusted — these  two  poems  have  at  least  their  foundation  in  the  poetry  of  those 
contemned  Elizabethan  bards.  "Dark  Rosaleen",  which  is  spirit  and  fire  indeed, 
and  that  extraordinary  concentration  of  pity  and  passion,  elemental  in  its  forces, 
"O'Hussey's  Ode  to  the  Maguire",  had  never  stood,  two  forest  trees  of  Anglo- 
Irish  poetry,  but  for  these  same  bards.  However,  "  the  annoying  "  of  the  Desmonds 
swept  them  away  like  leaves  before  the  blast,  and  there  were  none  powerful  enough 
to  protect  them,  so  they  took  their  songs  and  their  turbulence,  their  love  and  their 
little  wars,  to  a  kinder  world.  A  century  or  so  later  they  lifted  their  heads  again 
at  the  report  of  the  coming  of  Charles  Edward,  but  they  were  no  longer  the  children 
of  the  patriarchal  system  of  the  Irish  clans,  they  no  longer  sat  by  the  knees  of  the 
chiefs,  with  gold  and  honours  and  cherishing  in  return  for  their  songs.  They  were 
now  schoolmasters,  labourers,  pedlars,  publicans,  sometimes  settled,  but  more  often 
wandering  men. 

To  the  Irish  schoolmaster,  by  the  way,  Irish  letters  owe  a  debt  not  lightly  to 
be  estimated.  Who  but  he  kept  the  lamp  alight  in  dark  days,  and  preserved  the 
Irish  intellect  from  the  inevitable  dulling  and  degradation  that  must  come 
after  generations  of  disuse?  Learning  perhaps  never  flourished  under  stranger 
and  more  difficult  conditions.  The  freedom  of  the  mind  as  well  as  the  freedom 
of  the  soul  was  denied  these  Irish  Celts,  and  the  schoolmaster  was  often  enough 
the  martyr  of  his  calling.  He  followed  Learning  in  the  rain  and  the  wind,  under 
inclement  skies,  and  exposed  to  the  blasts  of  winter.  Surely  never  was  she  so 
wooed;  and  it  is  certain  that  she  rewarded  her  devout  disciple.  Arthur  Young 
saw  "  ditches  full  of  scholars "  when  he  travelled  in  Ireland,  and  there  are  many 
other  authentic  records  of  the  like.  In  July,  1779,  the  artist  Beranger,  having  visited 
Ballintubber  Abbey  and  made  a  sketch  of  it,  entered  in  his  Journal:  "Found  a 
schoolmaster  in  the  abbey  with  a  parcel  of  children;  his  desk  was  a  large  monument, 
and  the  children  sat  on  stones  arranged".  Another  author  mentions  that  the  tomb- 
stones with  their  inscriptions  sometimes  served  as  books,  while  a  bit  of  chalk  and 
the  gravestone  served  for  writing  materials.  Says  Mrs.  Atkinson:  "Master  and 
scholars  assembled  in  the  safest  spot  they  could  find — on  the  sheltered  side  of  a 
hedge,  in  a  dry  ditch,  or  on  the  edge  of  a  wood,  and  worked  away  at  the  three  R's, 
the  classics,  and  their  native  tongue,  prepared  in  dangerous  times  to  hide  their  books 
and  disperse  over  the  country  at  a  moment's  notice.  The  hunted  schoolmaster  had 
one  chance  more  than  the  hunted  priest;  for  while  the  latter  dared  not  fly  from  the 
altar,  the  pedagogue  had  only  to  throw  his  Horace  into  a  thorn-bush,  walk  away 
with  his  hands  in  his  pocket,  and  devote  his  attention  to  farming  operations  in 
adjacent  fields.  ...  In  those  days  Latin  was  freely  spoken,  especially  in  Kerry. 
Boys  were  often  met  with  on  the  lonely  hillsides  conning  their  Homer,  and  ruimers 


INTRODUCTION.  xv 

and  stable-boys  in  the  service  of  the  Protestant  gentry  could  quote  for  you  a  verse 
of  Horace,  or  season  their  remarks  with  a  line  from  Virgil."  No  wonder  that  Learn- 
ing is  precious  and  venerated  among  the  Irish  peasants  to-day.  Their  schoolmasters 
were  invariably  Jacobites,  as  they  were  always  to  be  found  on  the  side  of  the  lost 
causes. 

King  James  had  had  his  minstrels,  but  he  excited  no  such  romantic  personal 
attachment  as  his  grandson,  and  certainly  no  such  flowering  of  poetry.  Of  this 
Jacobite  poetry  a  deal  has  been  happily  retained  in  the  inspired  renderings  of 
Ferguson,  Walsh,  Callanan,  Mangan,  Dr.  Sigerson,  and  others,  as  well  as  in  the 
academic — correct  no  doubt,  but  quite  uninspired — renderings  of  those  admirable 
woi'kers.  Miss  Brooke  and  the  translators  of  Hardiman's  Irish  Minstrelsy.  The 
Cabinet  contains  a  goodly  selection  from  these  Jacobite  poems.  Here  is  one 
translated  by  Mangan  from  Egan  O'Reilly,  which  is  an  excellent  specimen  of 
an  exquisite  school.  It  is,  of  course,  allegorical,  and  the  lady  is  Ireland,  she  who 
was  typified  under  many  names,  Kathaleen-ni-Houlahan,  Celia  Connellan,  The  Silk 
of  the  Kine,  &c.,  as  her  royal  lover  was  the  Blackbird. 

The  brightest  of  the  bright  met  me  on  my  path  so  lonely. 
The  crystal  of  all  crystals  was  her  flashing  dark  blue  eye; 

Melodious  more  than  music  was  her  spoken  language  only. 
And  glories  were  her  cheeks  of  a  brilliant  dye. 

With  ringlets  above  ringlets  her  hair  in  many  a  cluster 
Descended  to  the  earth  and  swept  the  dewy  flowers; 

Her  bosom  shone  as  bright  as  a  mirror  in  its  lustre; 
She  seemed  like  some  fair  daughter  of  celestial  powers. 

She  chanted  me  a  chant,  a  beautiful  and  grand  hymn,    • 
Of  him  who  should  be  shortly  Eire's  reigning  king ; 

She  prophesied  the  fall  of  the  wretches  who  had  banned  him : 
And  somewhat  else  she  told  me  which  I  dare  not  sing. 

Trembling  with  many  fears,  I  called  on  Holy  Mary, 
As  I  drew  nigh  this  fair,  to  shield  me  from  all  harm ; 

When,  wonderful  to  tell,  she  fled  far  to  the  fairy 
Green  mansion  of  Slieb  Luachra  in  much  alarm. 

O'er  mountain,  moss,  and  marsh,  by  greenwood,  lough,  and  hollow 
I  tracked  her  distant  footsteps  with  a  throbbing  heart ; 

Through  many  an  hour  and  day  did  I  follow  on  and  follow 
Till  I  reached  the  magic  palace  reared  by  Druid  art. 

Then  a  wild  wizard  band,  with  mocking  cries  of  laughter, 

Pointed  out  her  I  sought,  seated  low  by  a  clown ; 
And  I  felt  that  I  never  could  dream  of  pleasure  after, 

When  I  saw  the  maid  so  fallen  who  deserved  a  crown. 

Then  with  burning  speech  and  soul  I  looked  at  her  and  told  her 
That  to  wed  a  churl  like  that  was  for  her  shame  of  shames. 

When  a  bridegroom  such  as  I  was  longing  to  enfold  her 
To  a  heart  that  her  beauty  had  kindled  in  flames. 

But  answer  made  she  none ;  she  wept  with  bitter  weeping ; 

Her  tears  ran  down  in  rivers,  but  nothing  could  she  say : 
She  gave  me  a  guide  for  my  safe  and  better  keeping, 

The  Brightest  of  the  Bright  whom  I  met  on  my  way. 


xvi  INTRODUCTION. 

O  my  misery  and  woe,  my  sorrow  and  my  anguish, 

My  bitter  source  of  dolor  is  evermore  that  she. 
The  Loveliest  of  the  Lovely,  should  thus  be  left  to  languish 

Amid  a  ruffian  horde  till  the  Heroes  cross  the  sea. 

So  nearly  always  is  the  belle  dame  sans  mcrci  of  the  Irish  bard,  the  country,  herself 
enslaved,  that  has  him  in  bonds,  represented  as  a  fair  damsel  whom  the  poet  meets 
on  the  way,  and  with  whom  he  holds  converse.  That  Egan  O'Reilly  is  not  over- 
praised by  Mangan's  flowing  version  of  him  we  see  in  Dr.  Sigerson's  translation  of 
the  same  poem: 

Brightness  of  Brightness  came  in  loneliness  advancing. 
Crystal  of  Crystal  her  clear  gray  eyes  were  glancing. 
Sweetness  of  Sweetness  her  soft  words  flowed  entrancing. 
Redness  and  Whiteness  her  cheek's  fair  form  enhancing. 

Surely  Mangan  has  attenuated  the  image,  has  diluted  the  thought. 

Instead  of  the  old  bardic  schools,  and  the  ollamhs  and  their  emulous  felloM'- 
students,  the  bards  had  now  the  circle  by  the  fireside,  to  which  they  were  welcomed, 
being  yet  hedged  by  that  sacredness  which  in  Ireland  has  long  attached  to  learning 
or  to  intellectual  gifts.  One  of  the  most  famous  of  them,  O'Toomey,  had  a  hostelry 
in  Limerick,  above  the  door  of  which  was  written  a  Gaelic  verse : 

Poor  poet,  do  not  pass  me  by; 
For  though  your  tongue  is  always  dry, 
And  not  a  thraneen  in  your  purse, 
O'Toomey  welcomes  you  no  worse. 

No  doubt  there  were  many  such  places  for  sessions  of  the  bards,  though  the 
hospitable  O'Toomey  was  soon  "  broke  out  of  "  his  establishment,  and  had  to  take  to 
being  an  assistant  hen-wife,  and  to  recei'vang  as  many  blows  and  buffets  from  the 
owner  of  the  hens  as  King  Alfred  did  from  the  owner  of  the  burnt  cakes.  However, 
wherever  they  went,  or  on  what  low  days  and  ways  they  were  fallen,  they  carried 
"my  Lady  Beauty"  in  their  hearts,  as  their  translators  have  shown.  They  were 
treason-mongers  like  their  predecessors,  and  most  often,  as  the  respectable  hold  it, 
they  were  ne'er-do-weels,  usually  in  opposition  to  all  authority,  and  with  authority's 
hand  against  them.  They  are  fascinating  fellows  to  linger  over,  but  one  must  get 
on.  They  call  Turlough  O'Carolan  the  last  of  the  bards.  I  think  the  last  of  the 
bards  was  one  Edward  Walsh,  a  poor  schoolmaster  of  a  penal  settlement.  You  will 
read  in  the  body  of  the  Cabinet  how  exquisitely  he  rendered  into  English  the  songs 
of  his  Irish-speaking  fellows.  This  surely  is  the  song  of  the  last  of  the  bards,  and 
never  was  brooding  and  sorrowful  passion  imagined  more  tenderly.  It  is  from  the 
unknown  Irish,  but  it  is  the  genius  of  Edward  Walsh  that  is  in  it. 

SONG  OF  THE   PENAL   DAYS. 

youthful  men  and  elders  hoary, 

Listen  to  the  harper's  song ! 
My  clarseach  weeps  my  true  love's  story 

In  my  true  love's  native  tongue. 
She's  bound  and  bleeding  'neath  the  oppressor; 

Few  her  friends  and  fierce  her  foe; 
And  brave  hearts  cold  that  would  redress  her, 

Ma  chreevin  evin,  alga  0! 


INTRODUCTION.  xvii 

My  love  had  riches  once  and  beauty — 

Want  and  woe  have  paled  her  cheek ; 
And  stalwart  hearts  for  honour's  duty — 

Now  they  crouch  like  cravens  sleek. 
Ah  heaven,  that  e'er  this  day  of  rigour 

Saw  sons  of  heroes  abject,  low  ! 
And  blood  and  tears  thy  face  disfigure, 

Ma  chreevin  evin,  alga  0/ 

I  see  young  virgins  on  the  mountain, 

Graceful  as  the  bounding  fawn. 
With  cheeks  like  heath-tiowers  by  the  fountain, 

Bi-easts  like  downy  canavan.^ 
Shall  bondsmen  share  these  beauties  ample? 

Shall  their  pure  bosoms'  currents  flow 
To  nurse  new  slaves  for  them  that  trample. 

Ma  chreevin  evin,  alga  0? 

Around  my  darseacKs  speaking  measures 

Men  like  their  fathers  tall  arise, 
Their  heart  the  same  deep  hatred  treasures, 

I  read  it  in  their  kindling  eyes. 
The  same  proud  brow  to  frown  at  danger, 

The  same  dark  coolun's  graceful  flow, 
The  same  dear  tongue  to  curse  the  stranger, 

Ma  chreevin  evin,  alga  0 ! 

I'd  sing  ye  more,  but  age  is  stealing 

O'er  my  pulse,  and  tuneful  fires. 
Far  bolder  woke  my  chord  appealing 

For  craven  Shemus  to  your  sires. 
Arouse  to  vengeance,  men  of  bravery, 

For  broken  oaths,  for  altars  low, 
For  bonds  that  bind  in  bitter  slavery. 

Ma  chreevin  evin,  alga  0! 

Meanwhile  side  by  side  with  this  Irish  literature  the  Anglo-Irish  was  ha\'ing 
its  beginnings,  though  it  is  long  till  the  writings  of  the  Anglo-Irish  bear  any  trace 
that  their  makers  were  born  on  Irish  soil.  Sir  John  Denham,  Richard  Stanihurst, 
Sir  James  Ware,  Usher,  Congreve,  Farquhar,  were  only  Irish  by  the  accident  of 
birth;  and  the  same  may  be  said  of  practically  the  whole  Anglo-Irish  school  down 
to  Swift  and  Goldsmith.  It  may  have  been  to  Swift  that  his  Irish  birth  and 
connection  with  Ireland  seemed  his  inalienable  misfortune;  but  whether  that  is  so 
or  not,  his  whole  character  and  genius  derived  from  the  place  of  his  birth.  The 
profound  and  hopeless  melancholy  of  the  Celt  was  his  bitter  inheritance.  His  so^va 
indignatio,  his  pity  and  love  and  rage,  were  for  this  people  whom  he  would  break 
to  make  nearer  to  his  heart's  desire.  Who  can  doubt  that  among  those  fine  ladies 
and  gentlemen  of  the  Journal  to  Stella  his  soul  walked  alone  1  Ireland  was  not  his 
Laputa;  and  in  his  furious  proposal  that  the  Irish  children  should  be  killed  and 
eaten,  the  inhuman  lash  of  his  sarcasm  is  for  the  nation  in  high  places  that  had  laid 
his  in  the  dust.  Granted  that  he  was  brutal  to  the  Irish.  He  would  have  scourged 
them  to  be  what  they  were  not;  and  the  sceva  indignatio  is  not  incompatible  with 

1  The  flower  of  the  bog  cotton. 
^.    VOL.  I.  b 


xviii  INTRODUCTION. 

much  love  of  this  country  and  this  people.  So  goaded  was  he  by  his  own  melancholy 
that  he  had  left  us  only  savage  things  if  it  were  not  for  that  extraordinary  revelation 
of  himself  in  the  Journal  to  Stella.  I  would,  as  a  mere  matter  of  personal  preference, 
give  all  the  Anglo-Irish  literature  of  that  day  for  the  Journal.  To  us  who  know 
the  tremendous  tragedy  of  Swift's  life,  while  we  fail  to  unriddle  its  meaning,  the 
poignant  tenderness  and  playfulness  of  the  Journal  are  intolerable.  The  charming 
figure  of  Stella  at  the  other  end  of  the  Journal  looks  roguishly  through  every 
line  of  it;  and  black  above  the  love  and  the  gaiety  and  the  yearning  for  the  one 
creature  to  whom  Swift  was  all  softness,  hangs  the  cloud  that  was  to  envelop  Swift 
in  impenetrable  night.  Goldsmith,  with  his  sunny  temperament,  was  of  course 
very  Irish;  and  from  Swift  and  Goldsmith  on,  the  Irish  influence  begins  to  show 
in  the  Anglo-Irish  literature.  Indeed,  to  certain  fine  gentlemen  associated  with 
fashion  and  the  Court  in  the  Dublin  of  the  last  century,  we  owe  some  exquisite 
additions  to  our  poetry.  There  was  the  Hon.  George  Ogle,  who  wrote  "  Molly 
Astore"  and  "The  Banks  of  Banna".  And  again,  there  was  the  Hon.  George 
Fox,  who  translated  from  the  Irish  one  of  the  most  beautiful  poems  we  possess. 
Strange  enough  that  he  should  have  remained  the  author  of  a  single  song. 

THE   COUNTY  OF  MAYO. 

On  the  deck  of  Patrick  Lynch's  boat  I  sit  in  woeful  plight. 
Through  my  sighing  all  the  weary  day  and  weeping  all  the  night ; 
Were  it  not  that  full  of  sorrow  from  my  people  forth  I  go. 
By  the  blessed  sun,  'tis  royally  I'd  sing  thy  praise,  Mayo ! 

When  I  dwelt  at  home  in  plenty  and  my  gold  did  much  abound. 
In  the  company  of  fair  young  maids  the  Spanish  ale  went  round. 
'Tis  a  bitter  change  from  those  gay  days  that  I  am  forced  to  go. 
And  must  leave  my  bones  in  Santa  Cruz,  far  from  my  own  Mayo. 

They  are  altered  girls  in  Irrul  now ;  'tis  proud  they've  grown  and  high, 
With  their  hair-bags  and  their  top-knots,  for  I  pass  their  buckles  by. 
But  it's  little  now  I  heed  their  airs,  since  God  will  have  it  so. 
That  I  must  depart  for  foreign  lands  and  leave  my  sweet  Mayo. 

'Tis  my  grief  that  Patrick  Loughlin  is  not  Earl  in  Irrul  still ; 
And  that  Brian  Duff  no  longer  rules  as  Lord  upon  the  hill ; 
And  that  Colonel  Hugh  O'Grady  should  be  lying  cold  and  low, 
And  I  sailing,  sailing  swiftly,  from  the  County  of  Mayo. 

Never  has  a  song  of  lamentation  been  more  beautifully  rendered.  What  simplicity, 
what  directness,  what  grief!  Again,  there  is  that  ballad  of  the  Brigade  that 
Stevenson  loved;  but  its  makers  are  unknown,  and  to  feel  its  full  beauty  you  must 
hear  it  sung  to  its  yearning  music. 

SHULE   AEOON. 

I  would  I  were  on  yonder  hill, 
'Tis  there  I'd  sit  and  cry  my  fill. 
Till  every  tear  would  turn  a  mill. 
Js  go  de  tu  mo  vuirnin!  sldn. 

I'll  sell  my  rock,  I'll  sell  my  reel, 
I'll  sell  my  only  spinning-wheel. 


INTRODUCTION.  xix 

To  buy  for  my  love  a  sword  of  steel, 
Is  go  de  tu  mo  vuirnin!  sldn. 

I'll  dye  my  petticoats,  I'll  dye  them  red. 
Around  tlie  world  I'll  beg  my  bread, 
Until  my  parents  shall  wish  me  dead, 
Is  go  de  tu  mo  vuirnin!  sldn. 

I  wish,  I  wish,  I  wish  in  vain, 
I  wish  I  had  my  heart  again, 
And  vainly  think  I'd  not  complain, 
Is  go  de  tu  mo  vuirnin!  sldn. 

But  now  my  love  has  gone  to  France 
To  try  his  fortune  to  advance, 
If  he  e'er  come  back  'tis  but  a  chance, 
Is  go  de  tu  mo  vxiirnin!  sldn. 

The  Irish  refrain  means  "Mayst  thou  go  safe,  darling!"  The  song  belongs  to  the 
time  when  the  Irish  who  had  fought  against  King  William,  when  his  cause  was 
triumphant  sailed  away  and  took  service  in  France  and  Austria  and  Spain.  They 
were  kno^vn  as  the  Wild  Geese.  Another  of  these  beautiful  things,  dropped  into  the 
Irish  literature  from  whence  one  knows  not,  is  "  Savourneen  Deelish ".  This,  too, 
has  the  music  to  draw  the  heart  out  of  the  breast. 

Ah  !  the  moment  was  sad  when  my  Love  and  I  parted, 

Savourneen  deelish,  Eileen  Oge ! 
As  I  kissed  ofiF  her  tears  I  was  nigh  broken-hearted, 

Savourneen  deelish,  Eileen  Oge ! 
Wan  was  her  cheek  when  she  hung  on  my  shoulder. 
Damp  was  her  hand,  no  marble  was  colder ; 
And  I  felt  that  I  never  again  should  behold  her, 

Savourneen  deelish,  Eileen  Oge  I 

When  the  word  of  command  put  our  men  into  motion, 

Savourneen  deelish,  Eileen  Oge ! 
I  buckled  on  my  knapsack  to  cross  the  wild  ocean, 

Savourneen  deelish,  Eileen  Oge ! 
Brisk  were  our  troops,  all  roaring  like  thunder, 
Pleased  with  the  voyage,  impatient  for  plunder. 
My  bosom  with  grief  well-nigh  torn  was  asunder, 

Savourneen  deelish,  Eileen  Oge ! 

Long  I  fought  for  ray  country,  far,  far  from  my  true  love, 

Savourneen  deelish,  Eileen  Oge ! 
J.  All  my  pay  and  my  booty  I  hoarded  for  you,  love, 

Savourneen  deelish,  Eileen  Oge ! 
Peace  was  proclaimed :  escaped  from  the  slaughter. 
Landed  at  home,  my  sweet  girl  I  sought  her ; 
But  sorrow,  alas !  to  the  cold  grave  had  brought  her, 

Savourneen  deelish,  Eileen  Oge ! 

Another  of  these  artlessly  artful  things,  and  I  am  done.  Since  there  is  no  place 
for  them  in  the  body  of  the  Cabinet  with  its  authenticities,  they  are  well  here,  for  no 
collection  of  Irish  poetry  should  be  without  them.  "Kathleen  O'More",  perfect  of 
its  kind,  belongs  also  to  the  latter  half  of  the  eighteenth  century,  when  English 
poetry,  awaiting  the  coming  of  Shelley  and  Keats  and  AVordsworth,  was  cold  and 
artificial.     This  is  by  George  Nugent  Reynolds,  an  else-forgotten  song-writer. 


INTEODUCTION. 


KATHLEEN   O'MORE. 


My  love,  still  I  think  that  I  see  her  once  more, 
But,  alas !  she  has  left  me  her  loss  to  deplore, 
My  own  little  Kathleen,  my  poor  little  Kathleen, 
My  Kathleen  O'More. 

Her  hair  glossy  black,  her  eyes  were  dark  blue. 
Her  colours  still  changing,  her  smiles  ever  new, 
So  pretty  was  Kathleen,  my  sweet  little  Kathleen, 
My  Kathleen  O'More. 

She  milked  the  dun  cow  that  ne'er  offered  to  stir ; 
Though  wicked  to  all  it  was  gentle  to  her, 
So  kind  was  my  Kathleen,  my  poor  little  Kathleen, 
My  Kathleen  O'More. 

She  sat  at  the  door  one  cold  afternoon. 
To  hear  the  wind  blow  and  to  gaze  on  the  moon. 
So  pensive  was  Kathleen,  my  poor  little  Kathleen, 
My  Kathleen  O'More. 

Cold  was  the  night-breeze  that  sighed  round  her  bower, 
It  chilled  my  poor  Kathleen,  she  drooped  from  that  hour  ; 
And  I  lost  my  poor  Kathleen,  my  own  little  Kathleen, 
My  Kathleen  O'More. 

The  bird  of  all  birds  that  my  heart  loves  the  best 
Is  the  robin  that  in  the  churchyard  builds  his  nest ; 
For  he  seems  to  watch  Kathleen,  hops  lightly  o'er  Kathleen, 
My  Kathleen  O'More. 

Meanwhile,  interest  in  the  ancient  Irish  poetry  had  awakened.  Walker's  Histori- 
cal Memoirs  of  the  Irish  Bards  was  the  first  sign.  To  this  Miss  Charlotte  Brooke 
contributed  her  first  translations.  Her  Beliques  of  Irish  Poetry  was  the  next  note- 
worthy event;  and  later  came  Hardiman's  Irish  Minstrelsy,  with  the  contributions  of 
Furlong  and  others.  This  was  all  excellent  scholarship;  but  the  translators  who 
were  capable  of  thinking  in  Irish  and  writing  in  English  were  yet  to  come.  Moore's 
advent  makes  a  little  blaze  of  glory  in  those  end-of-the-century  days.  He  had  the 
excellent  good  fortune  to  marry  a  pretty  gift  of  song-writing  to  the  beautiful  old 
Irish  airs.  Without  the  music  it  is  doubtful  whether  even  his  own  countrymen 
would  persist  in  thinking  Moore  a  great  poet.  Anyhow,  he  overshadowed  every- 
one else  in  his  day.  He  had  a  great  opportunity,  and  took  it,  and  he  remains  the 
idol  of  his  country-people  while  other  poets  languish  in  cold  neglect.  Among 
English  people  he  made  Ireland  and  her  woes  fashionable;  and  he  is  even  yet  singing 
in  many  English  homes  where  Ireland  and  the  Irish  sentiment  are  in  little  favour. 
Still,  though  he  was  not  a  great  poet,  he  wrote  some  exquisite  songs,  the  most 
exquisite  "  Through  Darkness  and  Danger  ",  and  "  At  the  Mid-Hour  of  Night ".  A 
very  remarkable  poet,  George  Darley,  lived  and  wrote  contemporaneously  with 
Moore,  but  only  the  most  literary  of  Irish  people  know  even  his  name.  However, 
real  sincerity  in  Irish  literary  work  was  on  its  way.  Davis  was  perhaps  too  deter- 
mined to  be  Irish,  and  poetically  Irish,  and  he  was  a  spendthrift  of  his  gift.  Both  in 
his  own  case  and  that  of  others  he  insisted  upon  the  Muse  being  the  handmaid  of 
politics,  frequently  with  disastrous  results  to  the  poetry.     He  had  no  time  himself 


INTRODUCTION.  xxi 

to  be  anything  but  fluent  and  careless;  he  had  bigger  things  to  do  than  the 
making  of  literature,  and  he  insisted  rather  on  quantity  than  quality  in  the  poets 
of  the  Nation.  No  doubt  the  fascination  of  Davis  and  Mitchel  and  their  ideals  gave 
the  impulse  to  a  movement  in  poetry  that  else  would  never  have  been  heard  of. 
Mitchel  vras  the  one  big  literary  figure  of  the  '48  movement,  and  his  medium,  of 
course,  was  prose.  Davis  was  not  exacting  with  himself  or  others.  Why  should  he 
have  been  indeed?  He  came  to  bring  a  new  soul  into  Eri;  and  though  the  arts 
were  to  serve,  it  was  no  time  for  men  to  sit  polishing  their  work  and  listening 
to  the  still  small  voice  of  the  artistic  conscience.  With  Davis,  oratory,  history, 
and  poetry  were  the  drums  and  fifes  of  his  movement;  and  he  himself  showed  them 
how  the  playing  should  be  done.  So  there  is  plenty  of  fine  and  even  splendid 
rhetoric  in  the  poetry  of  those  days;  nobly  inspiriting  as  it  is,  it  crashes  and  cries 
against  the  ear,  is  heard,  not  overheard,  as  someone  says  poetry  should  be.  Poetry 
is  not  to  be  pressed  into  causes  however  ideal,  and  the  spirit  not  seldom  fled  from 
the  exaltations  and  energies  of  the  Nation  to  quieter  places.  Of  subtle  and  essential 
poetry  there  is  little  in  the  Spirit  of  the  Nation,  or  in  the  published  volumes  of  the 
Nation  poets.  Of  fine  ballads  and  tender  love-songs  there  are  many ;  but  Davis  himself 
did  not  always  rise  to  the  level  of  his  beautiful  "Lament  for  the  Death  of  Owen 
Roe ".  Davis  the  poet  was  lost  in  DaAds  the  leader  of  men.  Of  the  essentially 
political  poets  of  the  time  D'Arcy  M'Gee  seems  to  me  the  best.  Of  course  there 
were  men  on  the  fringe  of  the  movement  who  were  poets  iirst — nay,  poets  altogether. 
There  was  Mangan,  whose  inspiration  only  failed  him  when  he  became  political  or 
ceased  to  be  Irish.  There  was  Walsh,  who  must  have  felt  as  his  brothers  of  a 
century  earlier  had  felt  if  they  had  seen  "  the  Blackbird  "  come  home  at  last.  And 
there  was  Ferguson,  quite  alien  in  politics,  whose  "Lament  for  the  Death  of  Thomas 
Davis  "  is  perhaps  the  truest  poetry  Davis  ever  inspired.  It  comes  very  easy  to  the 
Irishman  to  write.  Give  him  a  Cause,  and  he  is  as  much  a  ready  wTiter  as  a  ready 
speaker.  '98  had  its  scores  of  poets  as  it  had  its  scores  of  historians.  '48  had 
Davis  to  fuse  it  all,  to  set  it  a  thousand  paths,  though  but  one  way,  for  its  energy. 

Meanwhile  the  simplicity,  the  sincerity,  the  directness,  the  purity  of  style,  which 
came  in  with  Callanan,  had  found  others  to  emulate  them.  In  that  year  '46,  which 
was  dark  enough  with  Davis's  light  prematurely  blown  out,  there  was  published 
a  little  book  of  excellent  augury  for  Irish  poetry.  This  was  Specimens  of  the 
Early  Native  Poetry  of  Ireland,  edited  by  Montgomery.  The  translators  included 
Ferguson,  Walsh,  Mangan,  Anster,  and  D'Alton,  with  the  older  translators;  and  the 
volume  would  be  memorable  if  only  because  it  published  Mangan's  translation 
of  O'Hussey's  "Ode  to  the  Maguire",  one  of  the  finest  poems  in  our  literature. 
Meanwhile,  outside  any  general  movement,  and  in  some  cases  anterior  to  it,  a 
few  poets  had  been  making  their  poetry  with  entire  sincerity  and  success.  There 
was  John  Keegan,  the  peasant  poet,  who  is  altogether  delightful,  though  with 
characteristic  Irish  carelessness  he  makes  the  dog  in  "Caoch  the  Piper"  to  have 
nearly  the  life  of  a  man;  or  at  least  the  piper  and  the  piper's  dog  seem  to  grow 
old  at  the  same  pace.  There  was  that  most  winning  writer,  Gerald  Griffin.  And 
again  there  was  John  Banim,  who  laid  the  Irish  priesthood  under  an  immeasurable 
debt  by  his  "Soggarth  Aroon",  a  poem  which  holds  the  very  heart  of  the  attachment 
the  people  have  for  their  priests.  And  there  were  others,  though  these  names  occur 
most  readily. 

But  now  the  names  of  Banim  and  Griffin  remind  me  that  I  have  been  writing 


xxii  INTRODUCTION. 

as  if  the  Irish  literature  were  but  the  Irish  poetry.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  art 
of  romance  and  story-telling  had  become  natural  to  the  Irish  people  in  the  English 
tongue  much  sooner  than  the  art  of  poetry.  Of  course  Miss  Edgeworth,  our  one 
acknowledged  name  of  the  first  magnitude,  came  of  a  stock  originally  "planted". 
But  like  some  Irish  writers  of  to-day,  the  Edgeworths  had  become  strongly  Irish, 
and  no  doubt  the  extraordinary  wit  and  observation  of  the  great  Maria  owed 
something  to  that  aloofness  of  race  and  blood  Avhich  enabled  her  to  see  and  to 
interpret  dispassionately.  Carleton,  however,  was  altogether  Irish;  and  while  Miss 
Edgeworth  displayed  to  the  world  the  topsy-turvy  life  of  the  gentry  in  Castle 
Rackrent  and  The  Absentee,  Carleton  showed  us  the  Irish  peasant  from  -vnthin  as  no 
one  else  has  done.  He  was  no  gentle  idealist.  He  was  a  big,  coarse  peasant  of 
genius;  and  while  the  genius  in  him  enabled  him  at  times  to  paint  the  soft  and 
beautiful  side  of  the  Irish  peasant  character,  especially  as  it  is  sometimes  seen  in  a 
peasant  mother,  soft  as  Ireland  herself,  yet  the  very  genius  of  the  man  was  for  some- 
thing grinding  and  melancholy.  He  had  his  own  mother  for  a  revelation  of  soft 
beauty,  and  his  own  father  for  a  revelation  of  a  spiritual  life  which  no  needs  of  the 
body  could  cloud  or  alienate.  One  phrase  used  by  Carleton  in  speaking  of  his 
father's  piety  is  a  grosser  revelation  of  character  than  the  coarsest  of  Carleton's 
pages.  His  father  prayed  incessantly,  on  his  way  to  Mass,  at  Mass,  on  his  way  from 
Mass,  as  if  he  had  not  had  enough  of  it,  wrote  his  son !  Some  malignant  fairy  must 
have  been  at  Carleton's  christening  to  steal  away  the  little  saving  salt  of  spirituality 
which  would  have  made  his  genius  beautiful.  He  rendered  the  tragedy  of  Irish 
peasant  life  wonderfully.  He  had  the  peasant  hate  of  hate,  the  peasant  long 
memory,  which,  as  we  see  in  that  astounding  human  document  the  Autohiogixqjhy, 
made  him  impale  every  one  who  had  ever  done  him  a  real  or  fancied  injury.  These 
were  potent  ingredients  when  it  came  to  the  painting  of  peasant  wrong  and  peasant 
oppression.  About  the  absolute  monumental  value  of  Fardarougha  the  Miser  and 
The  Black  Prophet  one  has  not  the  slightest  doubt.  They  belong  to  the  primal  things 
of  life  and  literature.  John  Banim  had  something  of  Carleton's  gloomy  power,  but 
was  a  bourgeois,  not  a  peasant,  and  had  a  lighter,  sweeter  side  to  his  character.  Like 
Carleton  with  "  The  Churchyard  Bride  ",  John  Banim  produced  one  beautiful  poem, 
"  Soggarth  Aroon  ",  with  others  less  beautiful.  Michael  Banim,  working  in  the  same 
genre  as  his  brother,  is  less  powerful  and  more  pleasing.  Father  Connell  is  a  charming 
book;  and  both  brothers  had  a  gift  of  humour,  which  one  needs  in  describing  a  life 
so  often  concerned  with  things  melancholy  and  tragic.  Griffin,  with  The  Collegians, 
is  another  memorable  novelist;  and  one  cannot  but  be  sorry  that  he  did  not  produce 
more  novels  instead  of  training  the  young  mind  of  Ireland  as  a  Christian  brother. 
Lever  and  Lover  were  also  excellent  in  their  kind.  To  my  mind  it  is  a  good  kind. 
The  high  spirits  of  Charles  O^Malley,  Harry  Loirequer,  Jack  Hinton,  and  all  that  gay 
company,  seem  to  me  genius;  and  while  Luttrell  of  Arran  has  perhaps  more  serious 
literary  qualities.  Lever  seems  destined  to  immortality  by  reason  of  his  roisterers,  as 
high  of  heart  and  courage,  as  adventurous,  as  gay  almost  as  the  Mousquetaires.  After 
all,  there  is  another  life  than  the  peasant  in  Ireland,  and  no  doubt  Lever  depicted 
truly  enough  the  irresponsible,  rackety,  pleasant  life  of  the  Irish  gentry  before  the 
Encumbered  Estates  Act  came  to  make  it  dull.  Lover  is  frankly  farcical,  the 
professional  humorist,  and  very  successful  at  his  trade. 

In  memoirs  Irish  literature  is  especially  strong,  or  in  things  that  are  of  the 
nature  of  memoirs.     I  take  a  few  books  at  random,  and  I  declare  that  no  literature 


INTRODUCTION.  xxiii 

can  produce  better  than  these.  There  is  Swift's  Journal  to  Stella,  for  which  I  would 
give  all  the  literature,  including  Swift's  own,  and  only  excepting  Steele's,  of  Queen 
Anne's  reign.  There  is  Tone's  Diary,  which  exhilarates  and  saddens  more  than 
any  novel  of  adventure  I  have  ever  read.  There  are  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald's  gay, 
tender,  and  manly  Letters  in  Moore's  Life,  for  which  I  would  certainly  give  all  the 
Melodies.  And  yet  they  talk  of  '48  as  the  literary  epoch  of  Irish  revolutionary 
life!  Then  the  Autobiography  of  Carleton,  with  its  terrible  frankness,  its  amazing 
egoism,  its  colossal  vanity — why,  as  mere  literature  it  is  beyond  price.  I  name  but 
these  four  books  that  stand  out;  but  of  Memoirs,  Biographies,  and  Recollections 
there  is  no  end.  '98  alone  produced  so  great  a  number  that  one  is  forced  to  believe 
that  every  Irish  soldier  of  fortune  carried  writing  materials  in  his  knapsack. 

As  for  drama,  the  Anglo-Irish  mind  seems  to  have  always  run  to  that;  and  the 
Cabinet  has  more  than  its  share  of  dramatists,  though  their  number  is  fewer  in  our 
own  day. 

Since  '48  Irish  and  English  have  fused  rapidly.  Even  our  scholars  and  anti- 
quaries are  oftener  than  not  of  English  extraction.  An  O'Curry  indeed  led  the 
way,  an  O'Donovan  followed,  and  O'Grady  is  a  famous  name  in  our  OAvn  day;  but 
what  of  the  un-Celtically-named  Gilbert  Stokes  and  Hyde?  But  the  country  takes 
them  all  in  in  time.  To  Eugene  O'Curry  more  than  to  any  man  "let  the  greater 
praise  belong"  for  the  latest  development  of  Irish  literature;  for  the  distinction 
between  Irish  and  Anglo-Irish  is  fast  ceasing.  In  the  years  between  '48  and  '78 
there  was  not  much  doing  in  general  literature  in  Ireland.  The  Fenian  time  pro- 
duced no  one  more  interesting  than  Kickham,  whose  peasant  ballads  are  faultless, 
and  who  has  written  in  Knocknagow  a  beautiful  but  too  gentle  novel  of  Irish  life. 
Aubrey  de  Vere  of  course  was  working  in  poetry,  and  so  was  Allingham.  Ferguson 
also  produced  his  Epics,  so  that  in  poetry  the  time  was  memorable  enough.  Indeed, 
if  one  had  to  make  a  selection,  instead  of  a  collection,  of  Irish  poems,  and  of  the 
choicest  kind,  one  would  certainly  draw  largely  on  the  work  of  those  years,  in  which 
Ferguson  wrote  so  much  that  was  virile  and  romantic,  De  Vere  that  was  beautiful 
and  dignified,  and  Allingham  that  was  exquisite  and  perfectly  right.  If  one  had 
to  make  a  selection!  It  would  begin  with  The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore,  the  one 
immortal  poem  of  Charles  Wolfe,  and  would  go  on  with —  But  no,  it  is  a  selection 
in  the  clouds;  and  we  have  yet  the  last  twenty  years  unaccounted  for. 

Since  The  Cabinet  of  Irish  Literature  was  first  published  new  Irish  writers  have 
arisen  thick  as  leaves  in  Vallombrosa.  Scholars  indeed  have  no  close  time  in 
Ireland,  and  their  labours  are  not  disturbed  by  the  noise  of  more  or  less  peaceful 
revolutions.  But  the  respite  from  strong  passions,  particularly  of  the  last  decade, 
has  allowed  more  sensitive  people  to  collect  their  thoughts;  and  the  literary  activ-ity 
has  been  very  remarkable.  It  has  seemed  as  though  all  at  once  the  Anglo-Irish, 
by  reason  of  descent,  had  found  a  pride  and  a  pleasure  in  being  Irish,  and  the 
educated  and  privileged  class — not  one  here  and  there  more  enlightened  and 
generous  than  the  rest,  but  in  numbers — had  discovered  that  their  very  reason  for 
being  was  their  Irishism.  To  be  an  Irish  writer  nowadays  has  its  advantages, 
though  they  are  not  those  of  pelf.  Even  a  humble  -wTiter  may  hope  for  a  little  <ind 
sweet  remembrance  because  of  his  accidental  prominence  as  among  the  first  drops 
in  a  shower.  By -and -by,  when  the  ranks  of  Irish  ^vriters  are  thronged  as  the 
ranks  of  English  writers  are,  many  more  deserving  than  some  of  us  will  be  trodden 
down,  crushed  out  and  clean  forgotten.     It  is  our  compensation  for  being  little  read 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION. 

in  our  lifetime;  for  the  race  of  Irish  readers  of  Irish  books  is  not  yet:  and  the 
more  Irish  we  are  the  less  likely  we  are  to  find  favour  with  English  readers.  That 
is  to  say,  that  with  the  best  will  in  the  world  the  two  peoples  are  widely  difterent. 

The  English  indeed  liked  Lever,  and  would  be  glad  of  a  new  Lever  any  day. 
Ladies  who  write  in  the  same  light-hearted  and  irresponsible  fashion  are  sure  of 
their  vogue.  But  give  them  a  microcosm  of  the  Irish  nature  as  the  Irish  know  it, 
consciously  or  unconsciously,  and  it  is  worse  to  them  than  a  Chinese  puzzle.  It 
is  a  topsy-turvy  world,  and  they  resent  being  brought  into  it:  they  are  not  sure 
whether  they  are  being  laughed  at,  or  whether  they  have  by  accident  found  their 
way  into  a  madhouse.  Anyhow  they  will  have  none  of  it.  A  born  critic  here 
and  there  will  find  out  that  Mr.  Frank  Mathew's  Wood  of  the  Brambles  is  packed 
as  full  of  wit,  wisdom,  observation,  and  knowledge  as  genius  can  make  it;  but  to 
the  ordinary  reader  it  is  deliberately  and  oflFensively  topsy-turvy,  and  there's  an 
end  of  it.  Another  very  remarkable  Irish  novel  which  goes  the  way  of  The  Wood  of 
the  Brambles  is  The  Real  Charlotte,  by  the  ladies  who  call  themselves  "  CE.  Somerville 
and  Martin  Ross".  At  least  one  great  critic — the  one  inspired  English  critic  now 
living — found  out  that  The  Real  Charlotte  was  a  book  of  extraordinary  vivacity, 
discernment,  and  truth,  but  its  recognition  was  limited,  and  the  authors  were 
perforce  obliged  to  give  their  English  readers  something  more  to  their  palate. 
Another  remarkable  Irish  novel  of  late  years  is  Mr.  Downey's  Merchant  of  Killogue, 
which  for  its  faithful  representation  of  a  life  that  is  passing,  and  its  portrayal  of  one 
great  rough  figure,  deserves  to  be  a  classic  of  Irish  literature.  Perhaps  it  may  be 
one  day;  but  at  present  Mr.  Downey  is  known  chiefly  as  a  humorist. 

Even  serious  Irish  romance  has  little  chance  between  the  two  stools  of  English 
aloofness  and  Irish  neglect.  Another  Irish  writer  of  a  remarkable  book  is  Mr.  Shan 
Bullock,  whose  By  Thrasna  River  is  not  so  much  a  story  as  a  long  leisurely  summer 
in  the  north  of  Ireland,  where  the  very  reek  of  the  turf-smoke  is  in  the  air,  and  the 
mountain,  with  its  ragged  wisps  of  cloud  about  it,  is  for  ever  in  sight.  And  too 
late  to  include  in  the  body  of  the  Cabinet  comes  Miss  Julia  Crotty  with  her 
admirably  realized  Neighbours,  a  new  departure  in  Irish  literature  which  is  apt  to  be 
over-idyllic.  The  English  public  will  have  the  Irish  writer  in  perpetual  high  spirits 
or  it  will  have  none  of  him.  It  is  not  a  matter  of  prejudice.  The  Irish  vivacity 
of  certain  popular  writers  is  very  welcome  and  very  pleasant  to  English  readers,  but 
if  they  are  asked  to  look  beyond  it  they  are  simply  not  interested. 

The  Irish  at  present  are  a  conversational,  animated,  unrestful  race,  feeling  more 
the  direct  appeal  of  the  orator  or  the  dramatist  than  the  quiet  concentration  which 
a  book  demands.  It  is  a  people  which  lives  too  keenly  to  care  for  a  similitude  of 
life,  however  admirably  presented.  Great  excitements,  returning  with  the  regularity 
of  the  swing  of  the  pendulum,  are  fatal  to  letters;  and  the  man  fed  on  oratory  will 
be  quiet  only  long  enough  to  take  in  the  articles  of  some  unquiet  newspaper,  which 
is  but  another  form  of  stimulant.  Perhaps,  after  all,  our  great  need  is  of  a  Critic,  a 
critic  who  would  do  immediately  the  sifting  which  is  always  going  on  behind  the 
scenes,  sifting  the  false  from  the  true,  the  lasting  from  the  merely  perishable,  in  a 
judgment  there  is  no  gainsaying.  But  the  Critic  would  be  as  a  voice  crying  in  the 
wilderness,  unless  he  had  the  art  to  capture  and  to  lead  the  opinion  of  the  people 
— nay,  to  make  an  opinion  in  default  of  one  ready-made. 


EARLY  lEISH  WEITEES, 


1550—1750. 


GEOFFRY  KEATING. 

Born  1570  — Died  1650. 

This  celebrated  Irish  historian  and  divine, 
to  whose  indefatigable  labours  Irish  history 
is  so  deeply  indebted,  was  born  at  Tubbrid, 
near  Clogheen,  in  county  Tipperary,  about 
the  year  1570.  Of  the  details  of  his  life 
there  is  left  us  but  a  scanty  record.  At  an 
early  age  he  was  sent  to  Spain,  and  in  the 
college  of  Salamanca  he  studied  for  twenty- 
three  years.  On  his  return  home  he  was 
received  with  great  respect  by  all  classes 
of  his  countrymen,  and  after  a  tour  through 
the  country  was  appointed  to  the  ministry 
of  his  native  parish,  Tubbrid,  in  county 
Tipperary.  Here  he  soon  became  famous 
for  his  eloquence,  and  crowds  came  to  hear 
him  from  the  neighbouring  towns  of  Cashel 
and  Clonmel.  "Among  others",  says  the 
editor  of  Clanricarde's  Memoirs,  "came  a 
gentleman's  wife  whom  common  fame  re- 
ported to  be  too  familiar  with  the  Lord- 
president  of  Munster.  The  preacher's  dis- 
course was  on  the  sin  of  adultery,  and  the 
eyes  of  the  whole  congregation  being  on  the 
lady,  she  was  in  great  confusion,  and,  imagin- 
ing that  the  doctor  had  preached  that  sermon 
on  purpose  to  insult  her,  she  made  loud 
complaint  of  him  to  the  president,  who  was 
so  enraged  that  he  gave  orders  for  appre- 
hending him,  intending  to  punish  him  with 
all  the  rigour  of  the  law."  Before,  however, 
the  soldiers  reached  his  house,  the  historian, 
warned  by  his  friends,  had  fled  for  safety 
into  the  Galtee  Mountains  near  at  hand. 

In  the  solitude  of  the  mountains  Keating 
caused  to  be  brought  to  him  the  materials 
he  had  been  collecting  for  years,  and  at  once 
proceeded  to  write  his  well-known  and  im- 
portant History  of  Ireland,  which  was  written 
in  his  native  language,  and  ultimately  com- 
pleted about  the  year  1625.     It  begins  from 


the  earliest  period  (namely,  the  arrival  of 
the  three  daughters  of  Cain,  the  eldest  named 
Banba,  who  gave  her  name  to  Ireland,  which 
was  called  "the  Isle  of  Banba"),  and  ex- 
tends to  the  Anglo-Norman  invasion.  In 
1603,  however,  Keating  was  enabled,  owing 
to  the  recall  of  the  president.  Sir  George 
Carew,  to  England,  to  return  to  his  parish, 
where  he  found  a  coadjutor,  with  whom  he 
lived  and  laboured  peacefully  for  many  years. 
One  of  the  joint  works  of  the  two  men  was 
the  erection  of  a  church  in  1644,  over  the 
door  of  which  may  yet  be  seen  an  inscription 
speaking  of  them  as  founders,  and  beside 
which  was  placed  afterwards  the  following 
epitaph  on  the  poet-historian : 

"  In  Tybrid,  hid  from  mortal  eye, 
A  priest,  a  poet,  and  a  prophet  lie ; 
All  these  and  more  than  in  one  man  could  be 
Concentred  was  in  famous  Jeoffry  ". 

Of  the  other  works  of  Keating  many  were 
a  few  years  ago,  and  possibly  still  are,  well 
known  traditionally  to  the  peasantry  of 
Munster.  Among  them  are  "Thoughts  on 
Innisfail",  which  D'Arcy  Magee  has  trans- 
lated; "A  Farewell  to  Ireland";  a  poem 
addressed  to  his  harper ;  "  An  Elegy  on  the 
Death  of  Lord  de  Decies" ;  the  "  Three  Shafts 
of  Death",  a  treatise  in  Irish  prose,  which 
Irish  soldiers,  we  are  told,  have  long  held 
in  admiration. 

Keating's  death  is  generally  supposed  to 
have  taken  place  in  1650. 


MICHAEL  O'CLERT. 

Born  1580  — Died  1643. 

Michael  O'Clery,  the  principal  author  of 
the  well-known  Annals  of  the  Four  Masters, 
was,  according  to  Geraghty  in  his  introduc- 


EARLY  IRISH  WRITERS. 


tion  to  Connellan's  translation  of  that  work, 
born  in  Donegal  about  the  year  1580.  He 
was  descended  from  a  learned  family  who 
had  been  for  centuries  hereditary  historians 
to  the  O'Donnells,  princes  of  Tyrconnell,  and 
at  an  early  age  became  distinguished  for  his 
abilities  and  laboriousness.  While  yet  young 
he  left  Ireland  and  retired  to  the  Irish 
Franciscan  monastery  at  Louvain,  where  he 
soon  attracted  the  attention  of  the  learned 
Hugh  Ward,  a  native  of  his  own  county, 
and  a  lecturer  at  the  Irish  College.  His 
perfect  knowledge  of  the  Irish  language  and 
history  caused  him  to  be  employed  by  Ward 
to  carry  out  a  project  that  enthusiastic  monk 
had  formed  for  rescuing  the  annals  and 
antiquities  of  his  country  from  the  compara- 
tive oblivion  into  which  they  had  fallen. 

O'Clery,  accepting  the  offer  made  to  him, 
returned  to  Ireland,  where  for  many  years 
he  busied  himself  collecting  manuscripts  and 
other  works  and  transmitting  them  to  Lou- 
vain. In  1635  Ward  died,  but  some  time 
before  he  managed  to  publish  from  O'Clery's 
materials  The  Life  of  St.  Rumold,  an  Irish 
Martyrology,  and  a  treatise  on  the  Names  of 
Ireland.  John  Colgan,  also  a  native  of  Done- 
gal, afterwards  made  large  use  of  O'Clery's 
manuscripts  in  his  works  on  the  Irish  saints 
Trias  Thaumaturga  and  Acta  Sanctorum 
Hihernice.  Even  before  Ward's  death,  how- 
ever, O'Clery  had  already  commenced  his 
great  work,  which  at  first  went  by  the  name 
of  The  Annals  of  Donegal,  then  by  the  title 
of  The  Ulster  Annals,  and  is  now  known  over 
the  world  as  The  Annals  of  the  Four  Masters, 
as  he  and  his  assistants,  Peregrine  O'Clery, 
Conary  O'Clery,  and  Peregrine  O'Duigenan, 
a  learned  antiquary  of  Kilronan,  were 
named.  He  had  also  some  little  help  from 
two  members  of  the  old  and  learned  family 
of  the  O'Maolconerys,  hereditary  historians 
to  the  kings  of  Connaught. 

In  the  "Testimonials"  prefixed  to  the 
work  it  is  stated  that  it  was  entirely  com- 
posed in  the  convent  of  the  Brothers  of 
Donegal,  who  supplied  the  requirements  of 
the  transcribers  while  their  labours  were  in 
progress.  Fergal  O'Gara,  a  member  for 
Sligo  in  the  parliament  of  1634,  is  also  said 
to  have  liberally  rewarded  O'Clery's  assist- 
ants, while  it  was  his  advice  and  influence 
that  prevailed  on  O'Clery  to  bring  them  to- 
gether and  proceed  with  the  work.  In  the 
"Testimonials"  are  also  stated  the  names 
of  the  books  and  manuscripts  from  which 
the   Annals  were  compiled,  and  there  also 


we  find  the  information  that  the  first  volume 
was  begun  on  the  22nd  January,  1632,  and 
the  last  finished  on  the  10th  August,  1636. 
To  the  "Testimonials",  which  is  a  kind  of 
guarantee  of  the  faithfulness  of  the  work, 
is  subscribed  the  names  of  the  superior  and 
two  of  the  monks,  together  with  the  counter 
signature  of  O'Donnell,  prince  of  Tyrconnell. 
After  the  completion  of  the  Annals  O'Clery 
returned  to  Louvain,  where  in  1643  he  pub- 
lished a  Vocabulary  of  the  Irish  Language. 
This  seems  to  have  been  the  last  of  his 
works,  and  this  year  the  last  year  of  his  life. 


JAMES  USHER. 

BoEN  1580  —  Died  1656. 

Unlike  too  many  of  the  prelates  of  the 
Protestant  Episcopal  Church  in  Ireland, 
Archbishop  Usher,  or  Ussher  as  he  is  some- 
times called,  was  not  only  of  Irish  birth  but 
of  long-continued  Irish  descent.  The  origi- 
nator of  the  family  was  one  Nevil,  who  came 
over  to  Ireland  in  the  train  of  King  John, 
and  who,  from  his  office,  received  the  name 
of  Usher,  which  he  transmitted  to  his  descen- 
dants. James  Usher,  known  as  one  of  the 
most  eminent  scholars  of  modern  times,  was 
born  on  the  4th  January,  1580,  in  the  city 
of  Dublin. 

His  earlier  education  was  attended  to  by 
two  aunts,  who,  although  blind  from  their 
youth,  were  inwardly  full  of  intellectual  and 
religious  light.  By  these  he  was  encouraged 
in  his  passion  for  books.  While  only  eight 
years  old  he  was  sent  to  school  to  two  young 
Scotchmen,  who,  in  the  disguise  of  school- 
masters, had  been  placed  in  Dublin  to  further 
the  interests  of  James  I,  before  he  became 
king  of  England.  The  Scotchmen  are  said 
to  have  been  excellent  masters,  and  under 
their  care  he  progressed  rapidly.  In  1593, 
when  the  college  of  the  University  of  Dublin 
was  opened,  he  was,  though  only  thirteen 
years  of  age,  admitted  one  of  the  first  three 
students,  in  which  position  his  name  may 
to  this  day  be  seen  in  the  first  line  of  the 
roll. 

In  1596,  while  only  in  his  seventeenth 
year,  he  took  his  degree  of  bachelor.  Even 
before  this  he  had  already  drawn  up  the 
plan  and  collected  much  of  the  materials  for 
his  Annals  of  the  Old  and  New  TestameiU. 


EARLY   IRISH  WRITERS. 


While  in  his  nineteenth  year  he  had  a  con- 
troversy with  the  learned  Jesuit  Henry 
Fitz-Symonds,  then  a  prisoner  in  Dublin 
Castle,  and  acquitted  himself  so  well  that 
the  Jesuit,  who  at  first  despised  him  as  a 
boy,  afterwards  acknowledged  the  ripeness 
of  his  wit  and  his  skill  in  disputation. 
Usher  himself  says,  in  answer  to  the  foolish 
yet  constantly  repeated  taunt  of  youth,  "If 
I  am  a  boy  (as  it  hath  pleased  you  very 
contemptuously  to  name  me)  I  give  thanks 
to  the  Lord  that  my  carriage  towards  you 
hath  been  such  as  could  minister  unto  you 
no  occasion  to  despise  my  youth".  In  1600 
he  acquired  the  degree  of  Master  of  Arts, 
and  was  appointed  proctor  and  lecturer  of 
the  university,  and  soon  after,  though  under 
canonical  age,  he  was,  on  account  of  his 
great  abilities,  ordained  deacon  and  priest 
by  his  uncle,  then  Archbishop  of  Armagh. 
In  1601,  among  other  sermons,  he  preached 
one  which  has  since  been  claimed  as  pro- 
phetical, and  which  contained  the  words, 
"  From  this  year  I  reckon  forty  years ;  and 
then  those  whom  you  now  embrace  shall 
be  your  ruin,  and  you  shall  bear  their 
iniquity".  In  the  rebellion  of  1641  came 
the  supposed  fulfilment  of  the  prophecy. 

In  1603  Usher  was  appointed  to  proceed 
to  London  in  company  with  Dr.  Luke 
Challoner,  in  order  to  purchase  books  for 
the  library  of  the  university.  In  1607  he 
took  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Divinity, 
and  was  soon  after  made  Chancellor  of  St. 
Patrick's.  In  the  same  year  Camden  visited 
Dublin  to  collect  materials  for  his  description 
of  that  city,  which  may  be  found  in  the  last 
edition  of  his  Britannia.  In  this  he  con- 
cludes his  description  thus : — "  Most  of  which 
I  acknowledge  to  owe  to  the  diligence  and 
labour  of  James  Usher,  chancellor  of  the 
church  of  St.  Patric,  who  in  various  learning 
and  judgment  far  exceeds  his  years".  In 
this  year  also,  while  yet  only  twenty-six 
years  of  age,  he  was  chosen  divinity  professor 
in  the  university,  the  duties  connected  with 
which  he  performed  diligently  for  thirteen 
years. 

In  1609  Usher  visited  London  for  the 
third  time,  and  on  this  occasion  he  became 
acquainted  with  the  most  able  and  learned 
men  then  there.  These  comprised  Camden, 
whom  he  had  already  met,  Selden,  Sir  Robert 
Cotton,  Lydiat,  Dr.  Davenant,  by  all  of 
whom  he  was  treated  with  the  utmost  respect 
and  consideration.  After  this  he  made  it  a 
rule  to  visit  England  once  every  three  years 


for  a  stay  of  about  three  month.s,  one  of  which 
he  spent  at  each  of  the  universities,  the 
other  in  London.  In  1610  he  was  elected 
provost  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  which 
office  he  refused,  fearful  of  its  duties  inter- 
fering with  his  literary  designs,  and  in  1612 
he  took  his  degree  of  Doctor  of  Divinity. 
Next  year,  while  in  London,  he  published 
his  first  real  work,  De  Ecclesiarum  Christian- 
arum  Successione  et  Statu,  which  in  its  best 
shape  in  the  edition  of  1687  is  printed  with 
his  Antiquities  of  the  British  Churches. 

On  his  return  to  Ireland  in  1613  he  mar- 
ried the  only  daughter  of  Dr.  Luke  Chal- 
loner. The  marriage  was  a  happy  one,  and 
in  no  way  interfered  with  the  studies  or 
habits  of  Usher,  who  we  find  in  London  in 
1619,  when  he  so  satisfied  James  I  that  he 
was  next  year  made  Bishop  of  Meath.  In 
1623  he  was  again  in  England  collecting 
materials  for  a  work  which  the  king  had 
employed  him  to  write  on  the  antiquities 
of  the  churches  of  England,  Ireland,  and 
Scotland.  Just  before  the  king's  death  he 
visited  England,  and  was  advanced  to  the 
archbishopric  of  Armagh,  which  he  failed  to 
enter  upon  for  some  months  in  consequence 
of  an  attack  of  ague.  His  appointment  was 
on  the  21st ;  the  death  of  James  occurred 
six  days  later,  on  the  27th  March,  1625. 

Before  returning  to  Ireland  Usher  made 
the  acquaintance  of  Charles  I,  by  whom  he 
was  highly  favoured,  and  who  ordered  him 
for  his  expenses  ^'400  out  of  the  Irish  trea- 
sury. On  entering  upon  the  labours  of  his 
diocese  he  found  matters,  religious  and 
political,  in  an  excited  condition,  but  though 
he  took  part  in  them  vigorously  he  was  not 
to  be  prevented  from  following  his  beloved 
studies.  Aided  by  his  increased  income  he 
employed  a  British  merchant  residing  at 
Aleppo  to  purchase  oiiental  writings,  and 
through  this  person  he  soon  obtained  several 
rare  and  curious,  as  well  as  valuable  and 
important,  manuscripts.  One  of  these  was 
a  copy  of  the  Samaritan  Pentateuch,  another 
a  copy  of  the  Old  Testament  in  Syriac.  All 
these  treasures  he  liberally  placed  at  the 
disposal  of  other  scholars,  and  many  of  them 
are  now  to  be  found  in  the  Bodleian  Library 
at  Oxford.  In  1634  there  arose  again  the 
ever-recurring  dispute  as  to  precedence  be- 
tween the  Archbishops  of  Armagh  and 
Dublin.  This  time  the  prelate  of  Armagh 
asserted  his  right  to  first  place  with  such 
clearness  and  vigour  that  it  was  decided  in 
his  favour,  a  decision  which  forty  years  later 


EARLY   IRISH  WRITERS. 


was  confirmed  at  a  full  meeting  of  cardinals 
in  Rome. 

In  1640,  just  before  the  outbreak  of  the 
troubles  in  Ireland,  Usher  and  his  family — 
he  had  only  one  child,  a  daughter  —  came 
to  England.  Prevented  from  returning  to 
Ireland  by  the  rebellion  of  1641,  he  was 
appointed  to  the  bishopric  of  Carlisle;  but 
from  this,  owing  to  the  successes  of  the 
Parliamentarians,  he  derived  no  benefit, 
though  afterwards  parliament  voted  him  a 
pension  of  X400  a  year,  which  he  received 
once  or  twice.  Shortly  before  King  Charles 
came  to  Oxford  he  i-emoved  there,  and  in 
1643  he  was  appointed  one  of  the  Assembly 
of  Divines  at  Westminster,  but  refused  to 
sit,  his  principles  leading  him  not  only  to 
preach  against,  but  refuse  to  be  present  at 
the  revision  and  remodelling  of  the  Church 
which  the  Assembly  contemplated.  For  this 
refusal  and  for  some  expressions  in  his  ser- 
mons parliament  ordered  his  library  to  be 
seized.  Dr.  Featly,  however,  obtained  it  for 
his  own  use,  and  so  preserved  it  to  its  right- 
ful owner.  In  the  midst  of  the  political  and 
religious  turmoil  and  rancour  of  the  age  he 
lived  quietly  at  Oxford  for  some  time,  and 
there  he  published  his  tracts  On  the  Lawful- 
ness of  Levying  War  against  the  King; 
Historical  Disquisition  touching  Lesser  Asia; 
and  The  Epistles  of  Saint  Ignatius. 

Just  before  the  siege  he  left  Oxford  and 
retired  to  Cardifi"  Castle,  commanded  by  Sir 
T.  Tyrrel,  who  had  married  his  daughter. 
Here  he  continued  in  quietness  for  some 
months,  still  engaged  in  study,  and  here  he 
was  visited  by  the  king  shortly  after  the 
fatal  fight  of  Naseby.  From  Cardiff  he  pre- 
sently moved  to  the  castle  of  St.  Donats,  to 
which  he  was  invited  by  the  Dowager  Lady 
Stradling.  On  his  way  thither  he  and  his 
party  were  set  upon,  and  the  chests  contain- 
ing the  most  dearly  beloved  of  his  books 
and  manuscripts  were  broken  open,  and 
their  contents  flung  about.  A  few  gentle- 
men of  the  country,  however,  appeared  on 
the  scene,  and  prevented  further  outrage. 
At  St.  Donats  he  was  attacked  with  a  dan- 
gerous illness,  the  first  premonitions  of  the 
end. 

From  St.  Donats  he  moved  to  London  to 
the  house  of  Lady  Peterborough  in  1646, 
and  in  1647  he  was  chosen  preacher  of  Lin- 
coln's Inn.  In  1648  he  was  sent  for  by  the 
king,  who  was  confined  in  Carisbrooke 
Castle  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  to  give  his  advice 
in  several  important  matters;   and  in  1649, 


from  the  roof  of  Lady  Peterborough's  house, 
he  saw  with  horror  the  execution  of  the 
unfortunate  Charles.  In  1650  he  published 
the  first  part  of  his  Annals  of  the  Old 
Testa7nent,  and  the  second  in  1654.  In  this 
last  year,  in  answer  to  an  invitation,  he  paid 
Cromwell  a  visit,  and  again  in  1655  he  ap- 
peared before  him  to  plead  the  cause  of  the 
Chui'ch  of  England  clergy,  when  he  received 
a  promise  that  they  should  not  be  molested 
if  they  kept  clear  of  politics.  This  promise 
Cromwell  afterwards  refused  to  ratify  —  a 
refusal  which  greatly  pained  the  prelate. 
On  March  20th,  1656,  while  at  the  house  of 
Lady  Peterborough  at  Reigate,  he  was  taken 
ill,  and  died  on  the  next  day.  While  pre- 
parations were  being  made  to  bury  him 
privately,  Cromwell  ordered  him  to  be  in- 
terred in  Westminster  Abbey,  which  was 
done  accordingly  with  great  pomp  on  the 
17th  of  April.  His  library,  which  consisted 
of  over  ten  thousand  volumes,  was  eagerly 
sought  after,  the  King  of  Denmark  and 
Cardinal  Mazarin  offering  large  sums  for  it. 
Cromwell  interfered,  however,  and  it  was 
soon  after  purchased  by  the  army  in  Ireland, 
and  stored  in  Dublin  Castle,  from  whence 
on  the  Restoration  it  was  moved  to  Trinity 
College. 

The  works  of  Usher  are  well  known  to 
all  scholars  for  the  breadth  of  view,  deep 
learning,  and  wide  research  which  they  dis- 
play. His  chronology  of  the  Bible  is  still 
the  chronology  adopted  in  the  authorized 
version ;  his  work  on  the  Solar  Calculations  of 
the  Syrians,  a  work  On  the  Apostles^  Creed  and 
other  Ancient  Confessions  of  Faith,  and  his 
work  De  Grceca  Septuaginta,  are  remarkable 
as  displaying  his  wide  range  of  reading.  Of 
his  Ecclesiastical  Antiquities  of  the  British 
Churches  Gibbon  says,  "All  that  learning 
can  extract  from  the  rubbish  of  the  dark  ages 
is  copiously  stated  by  Ai'chbishop  Usher". 
Bishop  Jebb  says  he  was  "the  most  pro- 
foundly learned  offspring  of  the  Reforma- 
tion"; and  Dr.  Johnson  says,  "Usher  is  the 
great  luminary  of  the  Irish  Church ;  and  a 
greater  no  church  can  boast  of".  The  Body 
of  Divinity,  we  are  told,  was  published  with- 
out his  approbation,  and  of  it  Bickersteth 
says,  "Usher's  Body  of  Divinity,  though 
never  revised  by  him,  is  full  of  valuable 
theology". 

Such  was  the  universal  esteem  of  his  char- 
acter and  literary  reputation  that  he  was 
off"ered  a  professorship  at  Leyden,  and  Car- 
dinal   Richelieu    invited   him   to   settle   in 


EARLY   IRISH   WRITERS. 


I'rance,  promising  liim  perfect  freedom  as 
to  the  exercise  of  his  religion,  although  his 
notions  of  church  government  had  a  con- 
siderable leaning  towards  Presbyterianism. 
He  was  wont  to  hold  learned  conferences 
with  Dr.  John  Preston,  "  the  most  celebrated 
of  the  Puritans";  and  at  the  conclusion  of 
these  interviews  it  was  very  common  with 
the  good  archbishop  to  say,  "Come,  doctor, 
let  us  say  something  aboixt  Christ  before  we 
part".  "  He  hath  a  great  name  deservedly", 
says  Edward  Leigh,  "among  the  Reformed 
Churches  for  his  skill  in  ecclesiastical  anti- 
quities, his  stout  defence  of  the  orthodox 
religion,  frequent  and  powerful  preaching, 
and  unblamable  life." 

It  is  remarkable,  as  has  been  pointed  out 
in  Irish  Writers  of  the  Seventeenth  Century, 
"  that  though  living  in  an  age  when  even 
Waller  was  lured  from  his  flute,  and  Milton 
from  his  high  dreams  of  Paradise  to  fight 
on  affairs  of  church  and  state.  Usher  only 
once  used  his  pen  in  defence  of  the  king  and 
his  cavaliers". 


MAURICE  FITZGERALD. 

About  1612. 

Maurice  Fitzgerald  was  the  son  of  David 
duff  (the  black)  Fitzgerald,  and,  as  his  poems 
testify,  lived  in  Munster  in  the  time  of  Eliza- 
beth. Though  several  works  of  his  are  extant 
the  facte  of  his  life  are  shrouded  in  darkness. 
It  is  supposed  that  he  died  in  Spain,  where 
many  of  the  most  eminent  Irishmen  of  his 
time  found  an  exile's  home.  His  journey 
thither  probably  suggested  the  Ode  on  his 
Ship,  though,  as  Miss  Brooke  says  in  her 
Reliques  of  Irish  Poetry,  it  is  possible  the 
third  ode  of  Horace  deserves  that  credit.  In 
O'Reilly's  Irish  Writers  is  a  list  of  seven 
poems  by  Fitzgerald  which  were  in  O'Reilly's 
possession  in  1820.  Fitzgerald  seems  to  have 
been  a  man  of  considerable  education  and  of 
refined  taste. 


SIR  JAMES  WARE. 

Born  1594  — Died  1666. 

Ware  was  born  in  Castle  Street,  Dublin, 
on  the  26th  November,  1594,  his  father  being 
then  auditor-general  of  Ireland  after  having 


already  served  as  secretary  to  two  different 
lord  deputies.  At  sixteen  he  entered  Trinity 
College  as  a  student,  and  while  there,  much 
to  his  advantage,  made  the  acquaintance  of 
Usher,  who  had  already  started  on  the  road 
to  fame.  Like  Usher,  Ware  was  quick  at 
learning,  and  in  regular  course  he  took  his 
degrees  of  Bachelor  and  Master  of  Arts. 
Like  Usher  also,  he  had  already  commenced 
the  labours  which  were  to  make  him  famous, 
and  before  he  was  thirty  years  of  age  his 
collection  of  books  and  manuscripts  was  any- 
thing but  contemptible.  In  1626  he  visited 
London,  and  in  that  same  year  the  Antiquities 
of  Ireland  began  to  appear.  It  was  published 
in  parts,  as  were  almost  all  his  works,  and, 
as  Magee  observes,  still  bears  the  external 
evidences  of  profound  patchwork.  In  London 
he  was  introduced  by  Usher  to  Sir  Robert 
Cotton,  who  gave  him  every  help  in  his  power, 
and  who  placed  his  library  and  collection  at 
his  service.  He  availed  himself  largely  of  the 
treasures  thus  placed  before  him,  and  he  also 
made  considerable  researches  among  the  state 
papers  in  the  Tower  and  elsewhere.  Soon 
after  his  return  to  Ireland  he  commenced  the 
publication  of  his  Lives  of  the  Irish  Bishops; 
and  two  years  later,  in  1628,  he  again  visited 
London,  where  he  this  time  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Selden,  and  from  whence  he  brought 
back  to  Ireland  large  additions  to  his  collec- 
tion. In  1629  he  was  knighted,  and  in  1632, 
when  his  father  died,  he  succeeded  to  both  the 
fortune  and  office  of  his  parent.  In  1639  he 
was  made  one  of  the  privy-council,  and  the 
same  year,  despite  the  labours  of  his  office 
and  the  distractions  by  which  he  was  sur- 
rounded, he  managed  to  publish  his  most 
quoted  work,  the  Writers  of  Ireland.  In 
this  year  also  he  was  elected  member  of 
parliament  for  the  University  of  Dublin,  and 
in  1640,  as  the  friend  of  Strafford,  he  strongly 
opposed  the  election  of  the  Irish  committee 
which  was  sent  to  London  to  assist  in  the 
accusation  of  the  unlucky  viceroy.  During 
the  rule  of  Borlase  and  Parsons  and  the  suc- 
ceeding viceroyalty  of  Ormond,  the  conduct 
of  Ware  was  such  as  to  be  admired  by  friend 
and  foe. 

In  1644  Ware  left  Dublin  for  Oxford  as  one 
of  the  deputies  from  Ormond  to  the  king,  and 
while  in  Oxford  he  still  continued  his  favourite 
studies,  and  was  made  a  Doctor  of  Laws  by 
the  university.  On  his  way  back  to  Ireland 
the  vessel  in  which  he  sailed  was  captured  by 
a  Parliamentarian  vessel,  and  he  was  sent  a 
prisoner  to  the  Tower  of  London,  where  he 


EAELY   IRISH   WRITERS. 


remained  ten  months,  until  exchanged,  and 
returned  to  Dublin.  In  1647,  on  the  surrender 
of  Dublin,  he  was  given  up  as  one  of  the  hos- 
tages and  despatched  to  London,  where  he  was 
detained  two  years.  On  his  again  returning 
home  he  lived  privately  for  a  time,  but  in 
1649  the  Puritan  deputy  ordered  him  to  quit 
the  kingdom,  and  with  one  son  and  a  single 
servant  he  departed  for  France.  In  France 
Ware  resided  chiefly  at  Caen  and  Paris,  and 
at  both  places  busied  himself,  as  might  be 
expected,  in  his  favourite  pursuits  of  hunting 
for  manuscripts  and  making  extracts  from 
those  lent  to  him  or  which  he  was  allowed  to 
see.  In  1651  he  was  permitted  to  return  to 
London  on  family  business,  and  in  1653  he 
was  allowed  to  return  to  Ireland  to  visit  his 
estate,  which  was  then  in  a  sad  condition.  In 
1654  he  published  his  final  instalment  of  the 
Antiquities  of  Ireland,  of  which  a  second  and 
improved  edition  appeared  in  1659.  In  1656 
appeared  his  Works  Ascribed  to  St.  Patrick,  in 
1664  his  Atinals  of  Ireland,  and  in  1665  he 
saw  the  completion  of  his  Lives  of  the  Irish 
Bishops. 

The  Restoration  brought  restoration  of  his 
previous  offices  to  Ware,  and  at  the  election 
for  parliament  he  was  again  chosen  member 
for  the  university.  He  was  soon  also  appointed 
one  of  the  four  commissioners  for  appeals  in 
excise  cases,  and  he  was  offered  the  title  of 
viscount,  which  he  "thankfully  refused".  Two 
blank  baronetcies  were  then  presented  to  him, 
and  these  he  filled  up  with  the  names  of  two 
friends.  A  little  later,  on  the  1st  December 
(Wills  says  the  3rd),  1666,  he  died,  famed  for 
uprightness  and  benevolence.  He  was  buried 
in  the  family  vault  in  the  church  of  St.  Wer- 
burgh,  Dublin. 

Ware's  works  were  all  written  and  pub- 
lished in  Latin,  but  in  the  following  century 
they  were  translated  into  English  by  Walter 
Harris,  who  married  Ware's  great-grand- 
daughter, and  thereby  inherited  his  manu- 
scripts. His  translation  filled  two  massive 
folio  volumes,  which  are  to  be  found  on  the 
shelves  of  every  library  deserving  the  name. 
The  very  excellence  of  these  important  works 
— their  brief  accuracy  and  minute  compre- 
hensiveness—  render  them  almost  as  un- 
quotable as  a  dictionary.  In  them,  also,  the 
author  rarely  falls  into  theorizing,  for  which, 
says  Wills,  "  he  had  too  little  genius,  yet  too 
much  common  sense  ".  Magee  speaks  of  him 
as  "  a  great,  persevering  bookworm,  a  sincere 
receiver  and  transmitter  of  truth  ".  Bishop 
Nicolson  says  of  him,  "  To  Sir  James  Ware  , 


(the  Camden  of  Ireland)  this  kingdom  is 
everlastingly  obliged  for  the  great  pains  he 
took  in  collecting  and  p^eser^•ing  our  scattered 
monuments  of  antiquities  ". 


MAimiCE  DUGAN. 

Aboijt  1641. 

[All  that  we  can  discover  of  Maurice  Dugan 
or  O'Dugan  is  that  he  lived  near  Benburb,  in 
county  Tyrone,  about  the  year  1641,  and  that 
he  wrote  the  song  here  given  to  the  air  of  the 
"  Coolin  ",  which  was  even  in  his  time  old,  and 
which  is,  as  Hardiman  says,  considered  by 
many  "  the  finest  in  the  whole  circle  of  Irish 
music "'.  He  was  supposed  to  be  descended 
from  the  O'Dugans,  hereditary  bards  and  his- 
torians, one  of  whom  wrote  the  Topography  of 
Ancient  Ireland,  which  was  extensively  used  by 
the  "Four  Masters"  in  th.t\r  Annals.  O'Reilly, 
in  his  Irish  Writers,  mentions  four  other  poems 
the  production  of  O'Dugan,  namely.  Set  your 
Fleet  in  Motion,  Owen  was  in  a  Rage,  Erin 
has  Lost  her  La.wfal  Spouse,  Fodhla  (Ireland) 
is  a  Woman  in  Decay.  These  productions  are 
not  to  be  found  in  English,  and  are  supposed 
to  be  lost.  We  incline  to  the  belief,  how- 
ever, that  many  bardic  remains,  in  their 
original  and  almost  unreadable  Irish,  may 
yet  be  discovered  in  unsuspected  and  out-of- 
the-way  hiding-places.] 


THE  COOLUX.i 
[Tbaxslated  by  Sib  Samuel  Ferguson.] 

Oh,  had  you  seen  the  Coolun 

Walking  down  by  the  cuckoo's  street, 
With  the  dew  of  the  meadow  shining 

On  her  milk-white  twinkling  feet. 
Oh,  my  love  she  is  and  my  colleen  oge, 

And  she  dwells  in  Balnagar; 
And  she  bears  the  palm  of  beauty  bright 

From  the  fairest  that  in  Erin  are. 

In  Balnagar  is  the  Coolun, 

Like  the  bern.-  on  the  bough  her  cheek; 
Bright  beauty  dwells  for  ever 

On  her  fair  neck  and  ringlets  meek. 
Oh,  sweeter  is  her  mouth's  soft  music 

Than  the  lark  or  thrush  at  dawn, 
Or  the  blackbird  in  the  greenwood  singing 

Farewell  to  the  setting  sun. 

1  The  head  of  fair  curia. 


EARLY  lEISH  WRITERS. 


Rise  up,  my  boy,  make  ready, 

To  horse,  for  I  forth  would  ride 
To  follow  the  modest  damsel 

Where  she  walks  on  the  green  hill-side. 
For  ever  since  our  youth  were  we  plighted 

In  faith,  truth,  and  wedlock  true. 
Oh,  sweeter  her  voice  is  nine  times  over 

Than  organ  or  cuckoo. 

And  ever  since  my  childhood 

I've  loved  the  fair  and  darling  child ; 
But  our  people  came  between  us 

And  with  lucre  our  pure  love  defiled. 
Oh,  my  woe  it  is  and  my  bitter  pain. 

And  I  weep  it  night  and  day, 
That  the  colleen  bawn  of  my  early  love 

Is  torn  from  my  heart  away. 


Camden :  Eruditimmus  ille  nobilis  Richardus 
Stanihurstus. 


RICHARD    STANIHURST. 

Born  1545— Died  1618. 

Richard  Stanihurst  was  born  in  Dublin, 
and  in  his  eighteenth  year  became  a  com- 
moner of  University  College,  Oxford.  After 
graduating  he  pursued  his  law  studies  at 
Furnival's  Inn  and  Lincoln's  Inn ;  but,  re- 
turning to  Ireland,  married  a  daughter  of 
Sir  Charles  Barnewell.  About  1579  he  took 
up  his  residence  in  Leyden,  entered  holy 
orders,  and  became  chaplain  to  Albert,  Arch- 
duke of  Austria,  and  Governor  of  the  Spanish 
Netherlands.  A  great  portion  of  his  writings 
are  in  Latin.  His  first  work,  which  was  pub- 
lished in  London  in  1570,  in  folio,  is  entitled 
Harmonia,  sen  cateyut  dialectica  Porphyrium, 
and  is  spoken  of  with  particular  praise  by 
Edmund  Campion,  then  a  student  of  St. 
John's  College,  Oxford.  His  other  works  are 
De  rebus  in  Hiheniia  gestis  (Antwerp,  1584, 
4to);  Descriptio  Hiherniae,  which  is  to  be 
found  in  Holinsheds  Chronicle,  of  which  it 
formed  a  part  of  the  second  volume  ;  De  Vita 
S. Patricii (Antwerp,  1587, 12mo);  Hehdomada 
Mariana  (Antwerp,  1609,  8vo);  Hehdomada 
Eucharistica  (Douay,  1614,  Svo);  Brevi^  pre- 
nionitio  pro  futura  comvientatione  cum  Jacoho 
Csserio  (Douay,  1615,  Svo) ;  The  Principles  of 
the  Catholic  Religion;  The  First  Pour  Books 
of  Virgil's  Aeneis  in  English  Hexameters 
(1583,  small  8vo,  black  letter),  with  which 
are  printed  the  four  first  psalms,  "certayne 
poetical  conceites "  in  Latin  and  English, 
and  some  epitaphs.  The  friend  of  Sir  Philip 
Sidney,    he    deserved    the    description    of 


LUDOVICK    BARRY. 

About  1611. 

The  first  Irish  dramatist  who  wrote  in 
English.  His  comedy,  Ram  Alley  or  Merry 
Tricks,  "is,  for  liveliness  of  incident,  and  spirit 
and  humour  in  dialogue  and  character,  one 
of  the  best  of  our  old  English  dramas".  Lamb 
quoted  the  Prologue  to  PMni  Alley  in  his  Speci- 
mens of  English  Dramatic  Poets,  and  the 
play  itself  was  reprinted  in  1636,  and  is  con- 
tained in  Dodsley's  collection  of  old  plays. 


TEIGE    MACDAIRE. 

Born-  1570— Died  1650. 

He  was  principal  poet  to  Donogh  O'Brien, 
fourth  Earl  of  Thomond,  and  held  as  his 
appanage  the  Castle  of  Dunogan,  in  Clare, 
with  its  lands.  In  accordance  with  the  bardic 
usages,  he  wrote  his  elegant  Advice  to  a  Prince 
to  his  chief  when  he  attained  to  the  title. 
This  is  the  most  elaborate  of  his  poems.  A 
stilted  translation  into  English,  from  which 
we  do  not  quote,  as  not  preserving  the  spirit 
of  the  original,  exists.  MacDaire  was  assassi- 
nated by  a  marauding  soldier  of  Cromwell's 
army,  who,  as  he  treacherously  flung  the 
poet  over  a  precipice,  mocked  him  in  Irish, 
crying:  "Go,  make  your  songs  now,  little 
man ! "  This  would  be  one  of  MacDaire 's  own 
countrymen.  The  bards,  from  their  position 
and  privileges,  as  well  as  from  their  haughty 
insistence  on  their  rights,  made,  no  doubt, 
many  enemies. 


DTJALD    MACFIRBIS. 

BoRN'  15S5— Died  1670. 

This  famous  scholar  was  born  in  county 
Sligo.  He  was  the  author  of  The  Braiiches 
of  Relationship,  OT  Volumes  of  Pedigrees.    The 


EAELY  IRISH  WRITERS. 


autograph  copy  of  this  vast  compilation, 
generally  known  as  The  Book  of  MacFirbis, 
is  now  in  the  library  of  the  Earl  of  Roden. 
He  assisted  Sir  James  Ware  by  transcribing 
and  translating  from  the  Irish  for  him.  His 
Collection  of  Glossaries  has  been  published 
by  Mr.  Whitley  Stokes.  His  autograph 
Martyrology,  or  Litany  of  the  Saints  in  verse, 
is  preserved  in  the  British  Museum.  The 
fragment  of  his  Treatise  on  Irish  Authors  is 
in  the  Royal  Irish  Academy.  His  transcrip- 
tion of  the  Chronicum  Scotorum  was  translated 
by  the  late  Mr.  W.  M.  Hennessy,  and  pub- 
lished in  1867.  His  Annals  of  Ireland  has 
been  translated  and  edited  by  O'Donovan, 
and  published  by  the  Irish  Archjjeological 
Society.  A  transcript  of  his  Catalogue  of 
Extinct  Irish  Bishoprics,  by  Mr.  Hennessy,  is 
in  the  collection  of  the  Royal  Irish  Academy. 
In  the  Transactions  of  the  Kilkenny  Archaeolo- 
gical Society  may  be  found  his  English  version 
of  the  Registry  of  Clonmacnoise,  compiled  in 
the  year  1216. 


NICHOLAS   FRENCH. 

BOBN  1604— Died  1678. 

Nicholas  French,  afterwards  Bishop  of 
Ferns,  was  born  in  the  town  of  Wexford  in 
1604,  from  which  he  was  sent  early  in  life  to 
the  Irish  College  at  Louvain.  There  before 
long  he  distinguished  himself,  and  "there  also 
he  was  received  into  holy  orders".  Soon  after, 
hearing  of  the  troubles  of  his  country,  he  de- 
termined to  return  thither,  and  having  been 
appointed  parish  priest  of  Wexford,  "  he  be- 
came of  such  repute  both  for  elocution,  be- 
haviour, prudence,  and  integrity  that  he  was 
chosen  one  of  the  representatives  of  that  town 
in  the  assembly  of  the  confederate  Catholics 
at  Kilkenny  ".  Before  this  time  French  had 
already  completed  his  first  work,  A  System  of 
Philosophy,  which  so  far  as  we  can  discover 
yet  remains  unpublished. 

In  1643  French  was  appointed  Bishop  of 
Ferns,  and  in  1645  his  election  to  the  assembly 
at  Kilkenny  took  place  as  stated.  For  the 
next  few  years  he  laboured  busily  in  connec- 
tion with  political  matters,  giving  good  ad- 
vice to  the  party  to  which  he  belonged,  and 
not  wanting  courage  to  strike  out  against 
those  he  opposed.  In  1651  he  went  as  am- 
bassador for  his  party  to  the  Duke  of  Lor- 


raine at  Brussels,  in  which  negotiation  he 
was  successful,  though  in  the  end,  owing  to 
no  fault  of  the  ambassador,  all  came  to 
nought.  In  1652,  the  year  of  the  downfall 
of  his  political  hopes,  he  published  at 
Brussels  his  celebrated  work.  The  Unkinde 
Desertor  of  Loyall  Men  and  True  Friends. 
In  this  he  mercilessly  belaboured  the  Duke 
of  Ormond,  to  whom  he  attributed  the  ulti- 
mate failure  of  his  mission.  Soon  after  we 
find  him  at  Paris,  where  he  was  appointed 
coadjutor  to  the  archbishop;  but  from  this 
post  he  was  shortly  driven  by  the  intrigues 
of  Ormond  and  the  exiled  Charles  II.  In 
1662  and  1665  he  was  at  Santiago  in  Spain, 
as  we  know  from  some  letters  written  by 
him  from  that  place.  In  the  latter  year  he 
writes  also  from  Paris,  and  a  little  later  he 
returned  to  the  cloisters  of  St.  Anthony's  at 
Louvain. 

He  had  scarcely  settled  down  in  his  old 
quarters  before  he  took  up  his  pen  again, 
and  in  quick  order  appeared  his  numerous 
tracts  upon  Irish  affairs,  among  which  were 
"Thirty  Sheets  of  Reasons  against  the  Re- 
monstrance", "The  Due  Obedience  of  Catho- 
lics", and  "A  Dissertation  Justifying  the  Late 
War".  In  1668  appeared  his  best  work,  from 
a  literary  point  of  view.  The  Settlement  and 
Sale  of  Ireland;  and  in  1674  The  Bleeding 
Iphigenia.  Before  this  he  became  president 
of  the  Irish  College,  but  about  this  time  he 
moved  to  Ghent,  where  he  was  appointed 
coadjutor  bishop,  and  where  he  died  in  the 
year  1678. 

In  addition  to  the  works  named,  French 
also  wrote  The  Doleful  Fall  of  Andrew  Sail 
and  The  Friar  Disciplined,  as  well  as  a  larger 
work  entitled  Religion  in  England. 


EODERIC    O'FLAHERTY. 

Born  1628— Died  1718. 

Among  antiquarians  and  historical  writers 
and  students  the  name  of  Roderic  O'Flaherty, 
the  author  of  Ogygia,  stands  deservedly  high. 
His  life  was  passed  in  a  time  full  of  miseries 
and  disasters  to  his  country,  of  wai's  and 
rumours  of  wars,  yet  none  of  these  could 
draw  him  aside  from  the  path  he  had  marked 
out  for  himself.  He  saw  the  race  of  which 
he  was  writing  melting  away  before  him, 
and  it  might  well  seem  that  the  day  might 


EARLY   IRISH   WRITERS. 


come  when  there  would  be  none  of  it  left  to 
read  his  writings.  Still  he  held  on  his  way, 
and  laboured  as  only  those  labour  who  enjoy 
their  work  for  itself  nioi-e  than  for  the  fame 
it  brings.  As  a  result  he  has  left  us  works 
"entitled  to  rank  among  the  most  learned 
and  agreeable  that  have  been  bequeathed  to 
any  country  ". 

O'Flaherty  was  born  at  the  paternal  man- 
sion of  Park,  near  Galway,  in  the  year  1628, 
his  father  being  then  principal  proprietor  of 
the  barony  of  Moycullen.  Soon  after  his 
father  died,  and  in  1630  he  was  declared  a 
king's  ward — the  equivalent  of  our  present 
ward  in  Chancery.  Before  he  became  of  age 
the  king  had  been  beheaded,  the  Cromwellian 
wars  had  spread  into  Connaught,  and  he  had 
retired  to  Sligo  for  shelter  from  the  storm. 
There  he  met  with  Duald  MacFirbis,  with 
whom  he  studied  the  Irish  language  and 
literature.  After  the  Restoration  he  re- 
turned to  Galway  to  find  the  lands  of  his 
family  in  the  possession  of  one  Martin,  or 
"Nimble  Dick  Martin",  as  he  was  called. 
"I  live",  O'Flaherty  said,  "a  banished  man 
within  the  bounds  of  my  native  soil;  a  spec- 
tator of  others  enriched  by  my  birthright; 
an  object  of  condoling  to  my  relatives  and 
friends,  and  a  condoler  of  their  miseries."  He 
immediately  entered  into  legal  warfare  with 
Martin,  and  somehow  managed  to  get  pos- 
session of  the  family  mansion,  but  it  was  not 
until  seventeen  years  after  his  death  that  his 
son  finally  ejected  the  usurpers  from  the 
patrimonial  lands.  Before  this  he  had  made 
the  acquaintance  of  John  Lynch,  author  of 
Cambrensis  Eversus,  who  induced  him  to 
undertake  the  labour  of  his  great  work 
Ogi/gia.  This  was,  it  seems,  completed  about 
1665,  but  did  not  appear  in  print  till  1684, 
when  it  was  issued  in  the  original  Latin. 
From  the  Latin  the  work  was  afterwards 
translated  into  English  by  J.  Hely,  and  pub- 
lished in  Dublin  in  1693.  Very  soon  after 
its  appearance  it  came  under  the  notice  of 
Sir  George  Mackenzie,  lord-advocate  of  Scot- 
land, who  strove  to  make  light  of  its  au- 
thority. This  caused  O'Flaherty  to  produce 
his  Ogygia  Vindicce,  which,  though  much 
spoken  of  as  settling  the  question  in  dis- 
pute, was  not  printed  until  1775,  when  it 
was  issued  under  the  care  of  Charles  O'Conor. 
In  1709  Sir  Thomas  Molyneux,  brother  of 
the  celebrated  William  Molyneux,  made  a 
journey  to  Connaught  and  called  upon 
O'Flaherty,  whom  he  found  "very  old  and 
in    miserable    condition ",     though    proud- 

VOL.  I. 


spirited  and  fond  of  his  studies.  Nine 
years  later,  at  the  age  of  ninety,  the  old 
man  passed  away,  the  last  of  the  ancient 
race  of  Irish  historians  and  chronologers. 

In  addition  to  his  Ogygia  and  Ogygia  Vin- 
dicce, O'Flaherty  wrote  A  Chorographical  De- 
scription oj  West  or  Il-Iar  Connaught,  Ogygia 
Ckristiance,  which  it  is  feared  is  lost,  and 
several  smaller  pieces,  the  very  names  of 
which  have  perished.  The  Description  of 
H-Iar  Connaught  has  been  edited  by  Mr. 
J.  Hardiman  for  the  Irish  Archajological 
Society,  and  published  in  1846.  Allibone 
says,  "O'Flaherty  was  something  like  an 
antiquarian:  the  Christian  era  was  with  him 
quite  a  modern  date  ". 

In  O'Flaherty's  works  as  they  originally 
appeared  there  is  a  purity  of  style  not  very 
usual  in  his  age.  Though  the  author  shows 
himself  to  be  a  man  of  imagination,  he  is 
never  credulous,  and  he  never  forgets  the 
nobility  of  the  calling  to  which  he  has  de- 
voted himself.  "At  times",  says  Magee,  "he 
smothers  a  point  in  illustrations.  But  there 
is  great  dignity  in  his  embellishments."  All 
his  works  are  agreeable  reading  to  anyone 
who  likes  the  old-world  flavour  that  pervades 
them.  Among  English  writers  he  is  spoken 
of  by  Belling  and  quoted  with  approbation 
by  the  clear-headed  Stillingfleet. 


WILLIAM    MOLYNEUX. 

BoEN  1656— Died  1698. 

William  Molyneux,  the  first  of  the  great 
trio,  Molyneux,  Swift,  and  Grattan,  that 
commenced,  continued,  and  brought  to  a 
perfect  end  the  battle  of  the  Irish  parlia- 
ment for  independence,  was  born  in  Dublin 
on  the  17th  April,  1656.  His  father  was  a 
gentleman  of  good  family  and  fortune,  a 
master  of  the  ordnance,  an  officer  of  the 
Irish  exchequer,  and  a  man  of  intellect  and 
culture.  His  grandfather  had  been  Ulster 
king-at-arms,  and  had  used  his  pen  in  the 
production  of  a  continuation  of  Ha7iine7-'s 
Chrojiicle.  Owing  to  his  tender  health 
William  Molyneux  was  educated  at  home 
by  a  tutor  till  he  reached  the  age  of  nearly 
fifteen,  when  he  was  placed  in  the  Univer- 
sity of  Dublin,  under  the  care  of  Dr.  Palliser, 
afterwards  Archbishop  of  Cashel.  Here  he 
was  distinguished,  as  a  biographer  says,  "  by 


EAELY  lEISH  WEITERS. 


the  probity  of  his  manners  as  well  as  by  the 
strength  of  his  parts;  and  having  made  a 
remarkable  progress  in  academical  learning, 
and  especially  in  the  new  philosophy,  as  it 
was  then  called,  he  proceeded  to  his  Bachelor 
of  Arts  degree".  After  taking  his  degree, 
which  he  did  in  his  nineteenth  year,  he  was 
sent  to  London,  where  he  entered  the  Middle 
Temple  in  June,  1675.  At  the  Middle  Temple 
he  remained  for  three  years  engaged  in  the 
diligent  study  of  the  law,  but  not  forgetting 
his  beloved  studies  in  the  mathematical  and 
physical  sciences,  which  had  received  such  a 
mighty  impulse  just  then  owing  to  the  many 
discoveries  and  exertions  of  the  members  of 
the  Royal  Society. 

In  1678  Molyneux  returned  to  Ireland, 
where  he  soon  after  married  Lucy,  the 
daughter  of  Sir  William  Domville,  attorney- 
general.  As  he  possessed  a  private  fortune, 
and  was  therefore  under  no  necessity  of 
earning  a  living,  he  continued  his  philo- 
sophical studies ;  and  astronomy  gaining  a 
strong  hold  on  his  mind,  he  began  in  1681 
a  correspondence  with  Flamstead,  which  was 
continued  for  many  years  with  benefit  to 
both.  In  1683  he  managed  to  bring  about 
the  establishment  of  a  philosophical  society 
in  Dublin  on  the  model  of  the  Royal  Society, 
and  prevailing  on  Sir  "William  Petty  to  be- 
come its  first  president,  he  accepted  the  office 
of  secretary.  His  labours  in  connection  with 
this  society  soon  made  Molyneux's  learning 
and  abilities  well  known.  Being  introduced 
to  the  Duke  of  Ormond,  and  after  performing 
some  literary  labour  for  that  nobleman,  he 
was  appointed  one  of  the  two  chief  engineers 
and  surveyors  of  crown  buildings  and  works. 
In  1685  he  was  elected  a  member  of  the  Royal 
Society,  and  in  the  same  year  was  sent  to 
survey  the  fortresses  on  the  Flemish  coast. 
While  on  the  Continent  he  travelled  through 
Flanders  and  Holland,  part  of  Germany  and 
France,  and  paid  a  visit  to  the  celebrated 
Cassini  with  letters  of  introduction  from  his 
friend  Flamstead. 

On  his  return  from  abroad  Molyneux 
published  his  first  work  of  any  importance, 
Sciothericum  Telescopium,  1686,  a  description 
of  a  telescopic  dial  and  its  uses  which  he  had 
invented.  In  1687  Halley,  with  whom  he 
had  established  a  correspondence,  sent  him 
the  proof-sheets  of  Newton's  Principia  as 
they  were  produced,  and  Molyneux,  though 
struck  with  admiration  and  astonishment  at 
the  work,  confessed  himself,  like  many  other 
astronomers  of  the  time,  unable  to  wholly 


understand  it.  In  1689,  owing  to  the  wars 
of  William  and  James,  he  left  Ireland  and 
removed  to  Chester,  where  he  busied  himself 
in  the  pi'eparation  of  a  work  which,  under 
the  revision  of  Halley,  appeared  in  1692  with 
the  title  of  Dioptrica  Nova:  a  Treatise  of 
Dioptrics  in  Two  Parts.  During  his  resi- 
dence in  Chester,  his  son  Samuel  was  born 
to  him,  and  his  wife  died.  As  soon  as  tran- 
quillity was  restored  in  Ireland  he  returned 
thither,  and  in  the  year  in  which  his  Dioptrics 
was  published,  1692,  he  was  elected  one  of 
the  members  of  parliament  for  the  city  of 
Dublin.  This  event,  which  seemed  unimpor- 
tant at  the  time,  was  the  originating  cause 
of  the  production  of  the  great  work  by  which 
the  name  of  Molyneux  will  be  for  ever  re- 
membered in  Ireland.  In  the  parliament  of 
1695  he  was  chosen  to  represent  the  univer- 
sity, which  he  continued  to  do  till  his  death, 
and  a  little  later  he  was  created  Doctor  of 
Laws.  About  this  time  also  he  was  nomi- 
nated one  of  the  commissioners  of  forfeited 
estates,  with  a  salary  of  £500  a  year,  but,  as 
a  biographer  states,  "looking  upon  it  as  an 
invidious  office,  and  not  being  a  lover  of 
money,  he  declined  it ".  In  his  place  in  the 
Irish  parliament  Molyneux  now  began  to 
take  notice  of  and  study  the  fight  for  inde- 
pendence which  that  body  had  begun  in  1690 
by  the  rejection  of  a  money  bill  which  had 
not  originated  with  themselves.    In  1696  and 

1697  the  English  parliament,  desiring  to  de- 
stroy the  Irish  woollen  manufactures,  then 
in  a  most  thriving  state,  introduced  prohibi- 
tory laws  to  prevent  their  exportation.  These 
enactments  seemed  to  Molyneux  not  only 
cruel  and  unwise,  but  unjust  and  tyrannical, 
and  he  immediately  set  himself  to  produce 
his  Case  of  Ireland  Stated.     This  appeared  in 

1698  with  a  manly  yet  respectful  dedication 
to  William  III. 

The  woi'k,  which  in  size  is  little  more  than 
a  pamphlet,  created  a  great  sensation  in  Eng- 
land. The  English  House  of  Commons,  losing 
its  head  in  a  fit  of  irritation,  declared,  "  that 
the  book  published  by  Mr.  Molyneux  was  of 
dangerous  tendency  to  the  crown  and  people 
of  England,  by  denying  the  authority  of  the 
king  and  parliament  of  England  to  bind  the 
kingdom  and  people  of  Ireland,  and  the  sub- 
ordination and  dependence  that  Ireland  had, 
and  ought  to  have,  upon  England,  as  being 
united  and  annexed  to  the  imperial  crown 
of  England  ".  An  address  was  presented  to 
the  king,  who  readily  promised  to  enforce 
the  laws  binding  the  parliament  of  Ireland  to 


EAELY   lEISH  WRITERS. 


dependence,  and  the  book  itself  was  com- 
mitted to  the  hands  of  the  common  hang- 
man, by  whom  it  was  glorified  by  being 
"  burnt  with  tire  ".  The  reception  his  work 
met  with  caused  little  astonishment  to  Moly- 
neux,  who,  in  his  preface,  seemed  to  antici- 
pate something  like  what  occurred.  "I  have 
heard  it  said",  he  writes,  "that  perhaps  I 
might  run  some  hazard  in  attempting  the 
argument;  but  I  am  not  at  all  apprehensive 
of  any  such  danger.  We  are  in  a  miserable 
condition,  indeed,  if  we  may  not  be  allowed 
to  complain  when  we  think  we  are  hurt." 

Before  the  great  stir  had  subsided  Moly- 
neux  journeyed  into  England  to  visit  Locke, 
with  whom  he  had  kept  up  a  most  intimate 
con'espondence  for  some  time.  This  visit 
began  in  July,  1698,  and  lasted  to  September, 
and  it  was  arranged  that  it  should  be  re- 
peated the  next  spring.  But  by  the  next 
spring  the  daisies  were  blooming  unseen  by 
the  patriot  philosopher.  The  fatigues  of  his 
journey  brought  on  an  attack  of  a  disease 
from  which  he  suffered  (calculus),  and  after 
reaching  Dublin  his  retchings  broke  a  blood- 
vessel, and  he  died,  after  two  days'  illness,  on 
the  11th  of  October,  1698. 

In  addition  to  the  works  we  have  named, 
Molyneux  wrote  a  reply  to  one  of  Hobbes's 
works  under  the  title  of  Metaphysical  Medi- 
tations on  God  and  Mind,  and  a  considerable 
number  of  articles  and  papers  which  appeared 
in  Philosophical  Transactions  and  elsewhere. 


NAHUM    TATE. 

Born  1652— Died  1715. 

Was  the  son  of  a  county  Cavan  clergyman. 
He  was  born  in  Dublin,  whither  his  parents 
were  driven  by  the  Northern  rising  of  1641. 
He  was  at  the  University  of  Dublin;  after- 
wards drifted  to  London,  where  he  found  a 
patron  in  the  Earl  of  Dorset  and  a  friend  in 
Dryden.  Is  known  chiefly  of  course  by  the 
metrical  translation  of  the  Psalms  of  David, 
which  he  made  in  collaboration  with  Dr. 
Brady.  He  wrote  several  plays — Brutus  of 
Alba,  a  tragedy ;  The  Royal  General,  a  tragedy ; 
The  Island  Princess,  a  tragi -comedy;   and 


Richard  III,  or  Sicilian  Vespers.  His  other 
works  included  Poems  on  Several  Occasions, 
Jephthak's  Vow,  and  Miscellanea  Sacra,  or 
Poems  on  Divine  and  Other  Subjects.  He  also 
collaborated  with  Dryden  in  the  second  part 
of  Absalom  and  Achitophel.  He  was  laureate 
for  a  considerable  time.  Except  for  his  acci- 
dental prominence  as  the  co-maker  of  the 
metrical  Psalter,  he  is  of  little  importance. 


NICHOLAS    BRADY. 

Born  1659— Died  1726. 

Was  born  at  Bandon,  county  Cork.  Went 
to  Westminster  School,  and  received  Student- 
ship of  Christ  Church,  Oxford.  However,  he 
took  his  degrees  at  Dublin  University;  was  a 
prebendary  of  Cork  Cathedral.  He  was  a 
Williamite  in  the  Revolution,  but  had  so 
much  influence  with  the  Jacobite  general, 
M'Carthy,  that  he  three  times  saved  his 
native  town  from  being  burned.  He  finally 
settled  in  London,  held  several  livings  in  and 
about  the  metropolis,  and  filled  the  position 
of  chaplain  to  William  and  Mary.  Besides 
his  share  in  The  New  Version  of  tlie  Psalms  he 
published  several  volumes  of  sermons,  made 
a  translation  of  thejEyieid  in  four  volumes, 
and  was  the  author  of  a  tragedy. 


ANDREW    MAGRATH. 

1723— 

Andrew  Magrath,  one  of  the  most  gay, 
careless,  and  rollicking  of  the  Jacobite  poets 
writing  in  Iiish,  was  born  in  Limerick  about 
1723.  He  was  the  author  of  a  great  many 
songs  and  poems  of  politics,  of  love,  and  of 
di'inking.  He  was,  like  so  many  of  his  fel- 
lows, a  wild  liver :  and  his  name  survives 
yet  among  the  peasantry  of  his  native  Mun- 
ster,  among  whom  he  is  remembered  as  the 
Mangaire  Sugach,  or  Merry  Monger.  None 
of  his  poems  have  been  adequately  rendered 
into  English.  The  date  of  his  death  is  not 
known. 


THE    CABINET 


OF 


IRISH    LITERATURE. 


SIR    JOHN    DENHAM, 

Born  1615  —  Died  1669. 


[Sir  John  Denham,  the  first  Irish  poet  of 
repute  that  wrote  in  English,  was  born  in 
Dublin  in  the  year  1615.  His  father,  at  that 
time  chief  baron  of  the  exchequer  in  Ireland, 
and  also  one  of  the  lords  commissioners  for 
that  kingdom,  was  of  Little  Horksley  in  Essex. 
His  mother  was  Eleanor,  daughter  of  Sir 
Garrett  More,  baron  of  Mellefont  in  Ireland. 
When  the  poet  was  only  two  years  of  age,  his 
father,  being  appointed  one  of  the  barons  of 
exchequer  in  England,  removed  to  that  coun- 
try, carrying  with  him  his  family.  In  1631 
the  youth  was  entered  a  gentleman  commoner 
of  Trinity  College,  Oxford,  where  it  seems  he 
was  "looked  upon  as  a  slow  and  dreaming 
young  man  by  his  seniors  and  contemporaries, 
and  given  more  to  cards  and  dice  than  his 
study ;  they  could  never  then  in  the  least 
imagine  that  he  would  ever  enrich  the  world 
with  his  fancy  or  issue  of  his  brain,  as  he 
afterwards  did  ".  At  the  end  of  three  years 
he  underwent  his  B.A.  examination,  and  was 
sent  to  Lincoln's  Inn  to  study  law,  which  he 
did  so  far  as  his  vice  of  gaming  would  allow 
him.  After  having  been  plundered  by  game- 
sters and  severely  reproved  by  his  parents 
he  acquired  a  sudden  abhorrence  of  the  evil 
practice,  and  wrote  an  essay  against  it,  which 
he  presented  to  his  father.  He  also  about 
this  time  added  the  study  of  poetry  to  that 
of  laws,  and  produced  a  translation  of  the 
second  book  of  Virgil's  JEneid.  In  1638  his 
father  died,  and  immediately  after  Denham 
gave  himself  up  to  his  old  vice,  and  lost  the 
money — several  thousand  pounds — that  had 
been  left  him. 
Vol.  I. 


In  1641,  like  a  lightning  flash  out  of  a  clear 
sky,  appeared  his  tragedy  called  The  Sophy, 
which  was  at  once  admired  by  the  best  judges, 
and  gave  him  fast  hold  of  the  public  attention. 
Speaking  of  the  poet  in  connection  with  this 
piece.  Waller  said  that  "  he  broke  out  like  the 
Irish  rebellion,  threescore  thousand  strong, 
when  nobody  was  aware  or  in  the  least  sus- 
pected it".  Soon  after  this  he  was  made  high- 
sheriff  of  Surrey  and  governor  of  Farnham 
Castle  for  the  king,  but  not  caring  for,  or  not 
being  skilled  in  military  affairs,  he  quitted  the 
post  before  long  and  retired  to  Oxford,  where, 
in  1643,  he  published  Cooper's  Hill,  a  poem  of 
some  three  hundred  lines,  on  which  his  fame 
chiefly  rests.  Of  this  work  Dryden  says  it 
is  "a  poem  which  for  majesty  of  style  is,  and 
ever  will  be,  the  standard  of  good  writing  ". 
An  attempt  was  made  to  rob  Denham  of  his 
laurels  by  what  Johnson  calls  "  the  common 
artifice  by  which  envy  degrades  excellence  ". 
In  the  "  Session  of  the  Poets  ",  in  some  lum- 
bering verses,  it  is  said  that  the  work  was 
not  his  own,  but  was  bought  of  a  vicar  for 
forty  pounds. 

In  1647  Denham  began  to  mix  in  political 
matters,  and  in  1648  he  conveyed  James, 
Duke  of  York,  into  France,  or  at  least  so 
say  Johnson  and  others ;  though  Clarendon 
affirms  that  the  duke  went  oft'  with  Colonel 
Bamfield  only,  who  conti'ived  his  escape. 
Certain  it  is  anyhow  that  Denham  went  to 
France,  from  whence  he  and  Lord  Crofts 
were  sent  ambassadors  to  Poland  from 
Charles  II.  In  that  kingdom  they  found 
many  Scotchmen  wandering  about  as  traders, 

1 


SIE  JOHN   DENHAM. 


and  from  these  they  obtained  £10,000  as  a 
contribution  to  the  king.  About  1652  he 
returned  to  England,  where  he  was  enter- 
tained by  Lord  Pembroke,  with  whom,  having 
no  home  of  his  own,  he  lived  for  about  a  year. 
At  the  Eestoration  he  was  appointed  to  the 
office  of  surveyor-general  of  the  king's  build- 
ings, and  at  the  coronation  received  the  order 
of  the  Bath. 

After  his  appointment  he  gave  over  his 
poetical  works  to  a  great  extent,  and  "  made 
it  his  business  ",  as  he  himself  says,  "  to  draw 
such  others  as  might  be  more  serviceable  to 
his  majesty,  and,  he  hoped,  more  lasting". 
Soon  after  this,  when  in  the  height  of  his 
reputation  for  poetry  and  genius,  he  entered 
into  a  second  marriage,  in  which  he  was  so 
unhappy  that  for  a  time  he  became  a  lunatic. 
For  this  misfortune  he  was  cruelly  and  un- 
genei'ously  lampooned  by  Butler,  but  fortun- 
ately it  did  not  last  long,  and  he  was  again 
restored  to  his  full  health  and  vigour  of  mind. 
A  few  months  after,  he  wrote  one  of  his  best 
poems,  that  on  the  death  of  Cowley.  This 
was  his  last  work,  for  on  March  19,  1669,  he 
died  at  his  office  in  Whitehall.  He  was  laid 
in  Westminster  Abbey  by  the  side  of  the  poet 
he  had  just  panegyrized. 

Dr.  Johnson  says  that  "  Denham  is  justly 
considered  as  one  of  the  fathers  of  English 
poetry.  .  .  .  He  is  one  of  the  writers  that 
improved  our  taste  and  advanced  our  language, 
and  whom  we  ought,  therefore,  to  read  with 
gratitude,  though,  having  done  much,  he  left 
much  to  do."  Di-yden,  speaking  of  Waller's, 
Cowley's,  and  Denham's  translations  of  Virgil, 
declares  that  "  it  is  the  utmost  of  his  ambition 
to  be  thought  their  equal,  or  not  much  inferior 
to  them  ".  Prior  places  Denham  and  Waller 
side  by  side  as  improvers  of  our  versification, 
which  was  perfected  by  Dryden.  Pope  in  his 
Essay  on  Criticism  speaks  of 

"  the  easy  vigour  of  a  line 
Where  Denham's  strength  and  Waller's  sweetness 
join"; 

and  in  his  Windsor  Forest,  within  the  compass 
of  a  few  lines,  he  calls  Denham  "  lofty  "  and 
"majestic",  and,  talking  of  Cooper's  Hill,  he 
prophesies — 

"  On  Cooper's  Hill  eternal  wreaths  shall  grow, 
While  lasts  the  mountain,  or  while  Thames  .shall 
flow  ". 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  Cooper's  Hill 
is  an  almost  perfect  model  of  its  kind,  not- 
withstanding thefactthat  Johnson,  character- 
istically enough,  declares  that  "  if  it  be  mali- 


ciously inspected  it  will  not  be  found  without 
its  faults  ". 

Denham's  works  have  been  several  times 
reprinted  in  one  volume  under  the  title  of 
Poems  mid  Translations,  with  the  Sophy,  a 
Tragedy.  In  addition  to  what  appears  in  this 
collection  there  are  other  things  attributed  to 
him.  The  most  important  of  these  is  a  New 
Version  of  the  Book  of  Psalms,  which  is  now 
little  known.  A  panegyric  on  General  Monk, 
printed  in  1659,  is  generally  ascribed  to  him, 
and  his  name  appears  on  the  poem  "  The  True 
Presbyterian  without  Disguise  ",  as  well  as  two 
pieces  called  "Clarendon's  House  Warming", 
and  "His  Epitaph".  These  last  are,  however, 
believed  to  be  by  Marvell,  and  are  printed  in 
the  late  American  edition  of  that  author's 
works.  Strange  to  say,  Denham  has  been 
rather  overlooked  and  forgotten  of  late  years, 
and  his  name  does  not  appear  in  any  of  the 
later  popular  editions  of  the  poets.] 


COOPER'S  HILL. 

Through  untraced  ways  and  airy  paths  I  fly, 
More  boundless  in  my  fancy  than  my  eye  : 
My  eye,  which  swift  as  thought  contracts  the  space 
That  lies  between,  and  first  salutes  the  place 
Crowned  with  that  sacred  pile,i  so  vast,  so  high. 
That  whether  'tis  a  part  of  earth  or  sky 
Uncertain  seems,  and  may  be  thought  a  proud 
Aspiring  mountain,  or  descending  cloud.  .  . 
Under  his  proud  survey  the  city  lies, 
And  like  a  mist  beneath  a  hill  doth  rise ; 
Whose  state  and  wealth,  the  business  and  the  crowd, 
Seem  at  this  distance  but  a  darker  cloud  : 
And  is,  to  him  who  rightly  things  esteems, 
No  other  in  effect  than  what  it  seems : 
Where,   with   like   haste,   through   several   ways 

they  run, 
Some  to  undo,  and  some  to  be  undone.  .  .  . 
My  eye,  descending  from  the  Hill,  surveys 
AVIiere  Thames  among  the  ■wanton  valleys  strays ; 
Thames !  the  most  loved  of  all  the  Ocean's  sons 
IJy  his  old  sire,  to  his  embraces  runs, 
Hasting  to  pay  his  tribute  to  the  sea, 
Like  mortal  life  to  meet  eternity. 
Though  with  those  streams  he  no  remembrance  hold, 
Whose  foam  is  amber  and  their  gravel  gold ; 
His  genuine  and  less  guilty  wealth  to  explore. 
Search  not  his  bottom,  but  survey  his  shore, 
O'er  which  he  kindly  spreads  his  spacious  wing, 
And  hatches  plenty  for  fhc  ensuing  spring, 
And  then  destroys  it  with  too  fond  a  stay. 
Like  mothers  who  their  infants  overlay ; 
Nor  with  a  sudden  and  impetuous  wave, 


1  St.  Paul's,  as  seen  from  Coopei's  Hill. 


SIR  JOHN   DENHAM. 


Like  profuse  kings,  resumes  the  wealth  he  gave. 
No  unexpected  inundations  spoil 
The  mower's  hopes,  nor  mock  the  ploughman's  toil, 
But  godlike  his  unwearied  bounty  flows; 
First  loves  to  do,  then  loves  the  good  he  does. 
Nor  are  his  blessings  to  his  banks  confined, 
But  free  and  common  as  the  sea  or  wind. 
When  he,  to  boast  or  to  disperse  her  stores, 
Full  of  the  tribute  of  his  grateful  shores, 
Visits  the  world,  and  in  his  flying  towers 
Brings  home  to  us,  and  makes  both  Indies  ours : 
Finds  wealth  where  'tis,  bestows  it  where  it  wants, 
Cities  in  deserts,  woods  in  cities  plants ; 
So  that  to  us  no  thing,  no  place  is  strange. 
While  his  fair  bosom  is  the  world's  Exchange. 
0,  could  I  flow  like  thee,  and  make  thy  stream 
My  great  example,  as  it  is  my  theme ! 
Though  deep,  yet  clear;  though  gentle, yet  not  dull; 
Strong  without  rage ;  without  o'erflowing  full ! 
Heaven  her  Eridanus  no  more  shall  boast; 
Whose  fame  in  thine,  like  lesser  current,  's  lost. . 
The  stream  is  so  transparent,  pure,  and  clear, 
That  had  the  self-enamour'd  youth  gaz'd  here, 
So  fatally  deceived  he  had  not  been, 
While  he  the  bottom,  not  his  face  had  seen. 
But  his  proud  head  the  airy  mountain  hides 
Among  the  clouds ;  his  shoulders  and  his  sides 
A  shady  mantle  clothes;  his  curled  brows 
Frown  on  the  gentle  stream,  which  calmly  flows. 
While  winds  and  storms  his  lofty  forehead  beat: 
The  common  fate  of  all  that's  high  or  great. 
Low  at  his  foot  a  spacious  plain  is  plac'd. 
Between  the  mountain  and  the  stream  embrac'd. 
Which  shade  and  shelter  from  the  Hill  derives, 
While  the  kind  river  wealth  and  beauty  gives, 
And  in  the  mixture  of  all  these  appears 
Variety,  which  all  the  rest  endears. 
This  scene  had  some  bold  Greek  or  Roman  bard 
Beheld  of  old,  what  stories  had  we  heard 
Of  fairies,  satyrs,  and  the  nymphs,  their  dames, 
Their  feasts,  their  revels,  and  their  amorous  flames! 
'Tis  still  the  same,  altho'  their  airy  shape 
All  but  a  quick  poetic  sight  escape. 
There  Faunus  and  Sylvanus  keep  their  courts, 
And  thither  all  the  horned  host  resorts 
To  graze  the  ranker  mead ;  that  noble  herd 
On  whose  sublime  and  shady  fronts  is  rear'd 
Nature's  great  masterpiece,  to  show  how  soon 
Great  things  are  made,  but  sooner  are  undone. 
Here  have  I  .seen  the  king,  when  great  affairs 
Gave  leave  to  slacken  and  unbend  his  cares. 
Attended  to  the  chase  by  all  the  flower 
Of  youth,  whose  hopes  a  nobler  prey  devour; 
Pleasure  with  praise  and  danger  they  would  buy, 
And  wish  a  foe  that  would  not  only  fly. 
The  stag,  now  conscious  of  his  fatal  growth. 
At  once  indulgent  to  his  fear  and  sloth. 
To  some  dark  covert  his  retreat  had  made. 
Where  nor  man's  eye  nor  heaven's  should  invade 
His  soft  repose,  when  th'  unexpected  sound 


Of  dogs  and  men  his  wakeful  ear  does  wound. 
Roused  with  the  noise,  lie  scarce  believes  his  ear. 
Willing  to  think  the  illusions  of  his  fear 
Had  given  this  false  alarm,  but  straight  his  view 
Confirms,  that  more  than  all  he  fears  is  true. 
Betray'd  in  all  his  .strengths,  the  wood  beset, 
All  instruments,  all  arts  of  ruin  met; 
He  calls  to  mind  his  strength,  and  then  his  speed, 
His  winged  heels,  and  then  his  armed  head; 
With  these  t'  avoid,  with  that  his  fate  to  meet; 
But  fear  prevails  and  bids  him  trust  his  feet. 
So  fast  he  flies  that  his  reviewing  eye 
Has  lost  the  chasers,  and  his  ear  the  cry; 
Exulting  till  he  finds  their  nobler  sense 
Their  disproportioned  speed  doth  recompense; 
Then  curses  his  con.spiring  feet,  whose  scent 
Betrays  that  safety  which  their  swiftness  lent: 
Then  tries  his  friends;  among  the  baser  herd, 
Where  he  so  lately  was  obeyed  and  feared, 
His  safety  seeks.     The  herd,  unkindly  wise, , 
Or  chases  him  from  thence,  or  from  him  flies; 
Like  a  declining  statesman,  left  forlorn 
To  his  friends'  pity  and  pursuers'  scorn, 
With  shame  remembers,  while  himself  was  one 
Of  the  same  herd,  himself  the  same  had  done. 

Then  to  the  stream,  when  neither  friends  nor  force. 

Nor  speed  nor  art  avail,  he  shapes  his  course. 

Thinks  not  their  rage  .so  desperate  to  essay 

An  element  more  merciless  than  they. 

But  fearless  they  pursue,  nor  can  the  flood 

Quench  their  dire  thirst;  alas!  they  thirst  for  blood. 

So  tow'rds  a  ship  the  oar-finn'd  galleys  ply. 

Which,  wanting  sea  to  ride,  or  wind  to  fly. 

Stands  but  to  fall  revenged  on  those  that  dare 

Tempt  the  last  fury  of  extreme  despair. 

So  fares  the  stag;  among  the  enraged  hounds 

Repels  their  force,  and  wounds  returns  for  wounds: 

And  as  a  hero  whom  his  baser  foes 

In  troops  surround,  now  these  assails,  now  those. 

Though  prodigal  of  life,  disdains  to  die 

By  common  hands;  but  if  he  can  descry 

Some  nobler  foe  approach,  to  him  he  calls 

And  begs  his  fate,  and  then  contented  falls. 

So  when  the  king  a  mortal  shaft  lets  fly 

From  his  unerring  hand,  then,  glad  to  die. 

Proud  of  the  wound,  to  it  resigns  his  blood, 

And  stains  the  crystal  with  a  purple  flood. 

This  a  more  innocent  and  happy  chase 

Than  when  of  old,  but  in  the  self-same  place, ^ 

Fair  Liberty,  pursu'd,  and  meant  a  prey 

To  lawless  power,  here  turn'd  and  stood  at  hay. 


OF  A   FUTURE   LIFE. 

These  to  his  sons  (as  Xenophon  records) 
Of  the  great  Cyrus  were  the  dying  words : 

1  Runnymede,  where  the  Magna  Charta  was  first  sealed. 


SIR  JOHN  DENHAM. 


"  Fear  not  when  I  depart  (nor  therefore  mourn) 
1  shall  be  no  where,  or  to  nothing  turn; 
That  soul,  which  gave  me  life,  was  seen  by  none, 
Yet  by  the  actions  it  design'd  was  known; 
And  though  its  flight  no  mortal  eye  shall  see, 
Yet  know,  for  ever  it  the  same  shall  be. 
That  soul  which  can  immortal  glory  give 
To  her  own  virtues  must  for  ever  live. 
Can  you  believe  that  man's  all-knowing  mind 
Can  to  a  mortal  body  be  confin'd? 
Though  a  foul  foolish  prison  her  immure 
On  earth,  she  (when  escap'd)  is  wise  and  pure. 
Man's  body,  when  dissolv'd,  is  but  the  same 
With  beast's,  and  must  return  from  whence  it  came; 
But  whence  into  our  bodies  reason  flows 
None  sees  it,  when  it  comes,  or  when  it  goes. 
Nothing  resembles  death  as  much  as  .sleep. 
Yet  then  our  minds  themselves  from  slumbers  keep; 
When  from  their  fleshly  bondage  they  are  free. 
Then  what  divine  and  future  things  they  .see ! 
Which  makes  it  most  apparent  whence  they  are, 
And  what  they  shall  hereafter  be  declare." 
This  noble  speech  the  dying  Cyrus  made. 
Me,  Scipio,  .shall  no  argument  persuade 
Thy  grandsire,  and  his  brother,  to  whom  fame 
Gave,  from  two  conquer'd  parts  o'  th'  world  their 

name,i 
Nor  thy  great  grandsire,  nor  thy  father  Paul, 
Who  fell  at  Cannee  against  Hannibal, 
Nor  I  (for  'tis  permitted  to  the  ag'd 
To  boast  their  actions)  had  so  oft  engag'd 
In  battles,  and  in  pleadings,  had  we  thought 
That  only  fame  our  virtuous  actions  brought; 
'Twere  better  in  soft  pleasure  and  repose 
Ingloriously  our  peaceful  eyes  to  close: 
Some  high  assurance  hath  possest  my  mind, 
After  my  death  a  happier  life  to  find. 
Unless  our  souls  from  the  Immortal  came, 
What  end  have  we  to  seek  immortal  fame? 
All  virtuous  spirits  some  such  hope  attends, 
Therefore  the  wise  his  days  with  pleasure  ends. 
The  foolish  and  short-sighted  die  with  fear 
That  they  go  no  where,  or  they  know  not  where; 
The  wise  and  virtuous  soul,  with  clearer  eyes, 
Before  she  parts,  some  happy  port  descries. 
My  friends,  your  fathers  I  shall  surely  see. 
Nor  only  those  I  lov'd,  or  who  lov'd  me; 
But  such  as  before  ours  did  end  their  days. 
Of  whom  we  hear,  and  read,  and  write  their  praise. 
This  I  believe:  for  were  I  on  my  way 
None  should  persuade  me  to  return,  or  stay: 
Should  some  god  tell  nie,  that  I  should  be  born. 
And  cry  again,  his  ofler  I  would  scorn; 
Asham'd,  when  I  have  ended  well  my  race, 
To  be  led  back  to  my  first  starting-place.   .   .  . 
Hence  from  an  inn,  not  from  my  home  I  pass, 
Since  nature  meant  us  here  no  dwelling-place. 
Happy  when  I,  from  this  turmoil  .set  free, 

J  Scipio  Africanus  and  Scipio  Asiaticus. 


That  peaceful  and  divine  assembly  see.   .   .  . 
Then  cease  to  wonder  that  I  feel  no  grief 
From  age,  which  is  of  my  delights  the  chief. 
My  hopes,  if  this  assurance  hath  deceiv'd 
(That  I  man's  soul  immortal  have  believ'd). 
And  if  I  err  no  power  shall  dispossess 
My  thoughts  of  that  expected  happiness: 
Though  some  minute  philosophers  pretend. 
That  with  our  days  our  pains  and  pleasures  end. 
If  it  be  so  I  hold  the  safer  side. 
For  none  of  them  my  error  shall  deride; 
And  if  hereafter  no  rewards  appear. 
Yet  virtue  hath  itself  rewarded  here. 


TO   SIR  RICHARD   FANSHA^\"E, 

ON   HIS  TRANSLATION  OF    "PASTOR   FIDO", 

Such  is  our  pride,  our  folly,  or  our  fate. 
That  few  but  such  as  cannot  write,  translate. 
But  what  in  them  is  want  of  art  or  vice, 
I  In  thee  is  either  modesty  or  choice.  .  .  . 
I  That  servile  path  thou  nobly  dost  decline 
i  Of  tracing  word  by  word,  and  line  by  line; 
These  are  the  labour'd  birth  of  slavish  brains, 
Not  the  effect  of  poetry,  but  pains; 
Cheap  vulgar  arts,  whose  narrowness  affords 
No  flight  for  thoughts,  but  poorly  sticks  at  words, 
A  new  and  nobler  way  thou  dost  pursue, 
To  make  translations  and  translators  too: 
They  but  preserve  the  ashes,  thou  the  flame. 
True  to  his  sense,  but  truer  to  his  fame. 
Fording  his  current,  where  thou  find'st  it  low, 
Let'st  in  thine  own  to  make  it  rise  and  flow, 
Wisely  restoring  whatsoever  grace 
It  lost  by  change  of  times,  or  tongue,  or  place. 
Nor  fetter'd  to  his  numbers  and  his  time.s, 
Be  tray 'st  his  music  to  unhappy  rhymes; 
Nor  are  the  nerves  of  his  compacted  strength 
Stretch'd  and  dissolv'd  into  unsinew'd  length; 
Yet  after  all  (lest  we  should  think  it  thine), 
Thy  spirit  to  his  circle  does  confine. 


ON   COWLEY'S   DEATH. 

Old  Chaucer,  like  the  morning  star. 
To  us  discovers  day  from  far; 
His  light  those  mists  and  clouds  dissolv'd 
Which  our  dark  nation  long  involv'd: 
But  he  descending  to  the  shades. 
Darkness  again  the  age  invades. 
Next  (like  Aurora)  Spenser  rose. 
Whose  purple  blush  the  day  foreshows; 
The  other  three  with  his  own  fires 
rhoebus,  the  poet's  god,  inspires; 
By  Shakspere's,  Jonson's,  Fletcher's  lines, 
Our  stage's  lustre  Rome's  outshines: 
These  poets  near  our  princes  sleep. 
.\nd  in  one  grave  their  mansion  keep. 


OWEN   WARD. 


They  liv'd  to  sec  so  many  days, 
Till  time  had  blasted  all  their  bays: 
But  cursed  be  the  fatal  hour 
That  pluck'd  the  fairest,  sweetest  flower 
That  in  the  Muses'  garden  grew, 
And  amongst  wither'd  laurels  threw. 
Time,  which  made  them  their  fame  outlive, 
To  Cowley  scarce  did  ripeness  give. 
Old  mother-wit  and  nature  gave 
Shakspere  and  Fletcher  all  they  have; 
In  Spenser,  and  in  Jonson,  art 
Of  slower  nature  got  the  start; 


But  both  in  him  so  equal  are. 

None  knows  which  bears  the  happier  share: 

To  him  no  author  was  unknown, 

Yet  what  he  wrote  was  all  his  own; 

He  melted  not  the  ancient  gold. 

Nor,  with  Ben  Jon.son,  did  make  bold 

To  plunder  all  the  Koman  stores 

Of  poets  and  of  orators: 

Horace's  wit  and  Virgil's  state 

He  did  not  steal,  but  emulate ! 

And  when  he  would  like  them  appear, 

Their  garb,  but  not  their  clothes,  did  wear. 


OWEN    WARD. 


Flourished  about  1600-1610. 


[Of  Owen  Eoe  Mac  an  Bhaird,  or  Eed 
Owen  Ward,  little  is  known  beyond  the  fact 
that  he  was  the  bard  of  the  O'Donnells,  and 
accompanied  the  princes  of  Tyrconnell  and 
Tyrone  when  they  fled  from  Ireland  in  1607. 
In  O'Reilly's  Irish  Writers  the  names  of  nine 
lengthy  and  still  extant  poems  of  his  are 
given.  The  elegy  which  we  give  here  is 
addressed  to  Nuala,  sister  of  O'Donnell,  the 
prince  of  Tyrconnell,  who  died  in  Rome,  and 
was  interred  in  the  same  grave  with  O'Neill, 
prince  of  Tyrone.  Ward  was  the  descendant 
of  a  long  line  of  bards  and  poets  of  the  same 
name.] 

LAMENT 

FOR  THE    TYRONIAN   AND   TYRCONNELLIAN    PRINCES 
BURIED    AT    ROME. 

0,  Woman  of  the  Piercing  Wail, 

Who  mournest  o'er  yon  mound  of  clay 
With  sigh  and  groan. 
Would  God  thou  wert  among  the  Gael ! 
Thou  would'st  not  then  from  day  to  day 
Weep  thus  alone. 
'Twere  long  before,  around  a  grave 
In  green  Tirconnell,  one  could  find 
This  loneliness; 
Near  where  Beann-Boirche's  banners  wave 
Such  grief  as  thine  could  ne'er  have  pined 
Compassionless. 

Beside  the  wave,  in  Donegall, 

In  Antrim's  glens,  or  fair  Dromore, 
Or  Killilee, 
Or  where  the  sunny  waters  fall. 
At  Assaroe,  near  Erna's  shore, 
This  could  not  be. 
On  Derry's  plains— in  rich  Drumclieff — 
Throughout  Armagh  the  Great,  renowned 
In  olden  years, 


No  day  could  pass  but  woman's  grief 
Would  rain  upon  the  burial-ground 
Fresh  floods  of  tears ! 

0,  no ! — from  Shannon,  Boyne,  and  Suir, 
From  high  Dunluce's  castle-walls. 
From  Lissadill, 
Would  flock  alike  both  rich  and  poor. 

One  wail  would  rise  from  Cruachan's  halls 
To  Tara's  hill ; 
And  some  would  come  from  Barrow-side, 
And  many  a  maid  would  leave  her  home, 
On  Leitrim's  plains, 
And  by  melodious  Banna's  tide. 

And  by  the  Mourne  and  Erne,  to  come 
And  swell  thy  strains  ! 

0,  horses'  hoofs  would  trample  down 
The  Mount  whereon  the  martyr-saint  ^ 
Was  crucified. 
From  glen  and  hill,  from  plain  and  town, 
One  loud  lament,  one  thrilling  plaint, 
Would  echo  wide. 
There  would  not  soon  be  found,  I  ween, 
One  foot  of  ground  among  those  bands 
For  museful  thought, 
So  many  shriekers  of  the  keen  - 

Would  cry  aloud  and  clap  their  hands, 
All  woe-distraught ! 

Two  princes  of  the  line  of  Conn 
Sleep  in  their  cells  of  clay  beside 
O'Donnell  Roe : 
Three  royal  youths,  alas  !  are  gone, 
Who  lived  for  Erin's  weal,  but  died 
For  Erin's  woe ! 


'  St.  Peter.  This  passage  is  not  exactly  a  blunder, 
though  at  first  it  may  seem  one :  the  poet  supposes  the 
grave  itself  transferred  to  Ireland,  and  he  naturally  in- 
cludes in  the  transference  the  whole  of  the  immediate 
locality  around  the  grave. — J.  C.  M. 

-  The  funeral  wail. 


OWEN   WARD. 


Ah !  could  the  men  of  Ireland  read 
The  names  those  noteless  burial-stones 
Display  to  view, 
Their  wounded  hearts  afresh  would  bleed, 
Their  tears  gush  forth  again,  their  groans 
Kesound  anew ! 

The  youths  whose  relics  moulder  here 

Were  sprung  from  Hugh,  high  Prince  and  Lord 
Of  Aileach's  lands ; 
Thy  noble  brothers,  justly  dear. 
Thy  nephew,  long  to  be  deplored 
By  Ulster's  bands. 
Theirs  were  not  souls  wherein  dull  Time 
Could  domicile  decay  or  house 
Decrepitude ! 
They  passed  from  earth  ere  manhood's  prime. 
Ere  years  had  power  to  dim  their  brows 
Or  chill  their  blood. 

And  who  can  marvel  o'er  thy  grief, 
Or  who  can  blame  thy  flowing  tears, 
That  knows  their  source? 
O'Donnell,  Dunnasava's  chief, 
Cut  off  amid  his  vernal  years, 
Lies  here  a  corse 
Beside  his  brother  Cathbar,  whom 
Tirconnell  of  the  Helmets  mourns 
In  deep  despair — 
For  valour,  truth,  and  comely  bloom, 
For  all  that  greatens  and  adorns 
A  peerless  pair. 

0,  had  these  twain,  and  he,  the  third. 
The  Lord  of  jMourne,  O'Niall's  son, 
Their  mate  in  death — 
A  prince  in  look,  in  deed,  and  word — 
Had  these  three  heroes  yielded  on 
The  field  their  breath, 
0,  had  they  fallen  on  Criffan's  plain. 
There  would  not  be  a  town  or  clan 
From  shore  to  sea, 
But  would  with  shrieks  bewail  the  slain. 
Or  chant  aloud  the  exulting  rann^ 
Of  jubilee! 

When  high  the  shout  of  battle  rose, 

On  fields  where  Freedom's  torch  still  burned 
Through  Erin's  gloom, 
If  one,  if  barely  one  of  those 

Were  slain,  all  Ulster  would  have  mourned 
The  hero's  doom ! 
If  at  Athboy,  where  hosts  of  brave 
Ulidian  horsemen  sank  beneath 
The  .shock  of  spears. 
Young  Hugh  O'Neill  had  found  a  grave. 
Long  must  the  North  have  wept  his  death 
With  heart-rung  tears! 

If  on  the  day  of  Ballach-myre 

The  Lord  of  Mourne  had  met  thus  young 
A  warrior's  fate, 

1  A  song. 


In  vain  would  such  as  thou  desire 

To  mourn,  alone,  the  champion  sprung 
From  Niall  the  great! 
No  marvel  this — for  all  the  dead. 
Heaped  on  the  field,  pile  over  pile, 
At  Mullach-brack, 
Were  scarce  an  eric'^  for  his  head, 

If  death  had  stayed  his  footsteps  while 
On  victory's  track ! 

If  on  the  Day  of  Hostages 

The  fruit  had  from  the  parent  bough 

Been  rudely  torn 

In  sight  of  Munster's  bands — Mac-Nee's- 

Such  blow  the  blood  of  Conn,  I  trow. 

Could  ill  have  borne. 

If  on  the  day  of  Ballach-boy 

Some  arm  had  laid,  by  foul  surprise, 
The  chieftain  low, 
Even  our  victorious  shout  of  joy 

Would  soon  give  place  to  rueful  cries 
And  groans  of  woe ! 

If  on  the  day  the  Saxon  host 

Were  forced  to  fly — a  day  so  great 
For  Ashanee — 
The  chief  had  been  untimely  lost, 

Our  conquering  troops  should  moderate 
Their  mirthful  glee. 
There  would  not  lack  on  Lifford's  day. 
From  Galway,  from  the  glens  of  Boyle, 
From  Limerick's  towers, 
A  marshalled  file,  a  long  array 
Of  mourners,  to  bedew  the  soil 
With  tears  in  showers  I 

If  on  the  day  a  sterner  fate 

Compelled  his  flight  from  Athenree, 
His  blood  had  flowed, 
What  numbers  all  disconsolate. 

Would  come  unasked,  and  share  with  thee 
Affliction's  load ! 
If  Derry's  crimson  field  had  seen 

His  life-blood  oflTered  up,  thougJi  'twere 
On  Victory's  shrine, 
A  thousand  cries  would  swell  the  keen, 
A  thou.sand  voices  of  despair 
Would  echo  thine ! 

0,  had  the  fierce  Dalcassian  swarm 
That  bloody  night  on  Fergus'  banks 
But  slain  our  chief. 
When  rose  his  camp  in  wild  alarm — 
How  would  the  triumph  of  his  ranks 
Be  dashed  with  grief! 
How  would  the  troops  of  Murbach  mourn 
If  on  the  Curlew  Mountains'  day, 
Which  England  rued, 
Some  Saxon  hand  had  left  them  lorn, 
By  shedding  there,  amid  the  fray. 
Their  prince's  blood ! 


2  A  compensation  or  fine. 


RICHARD   FLECKNOE. 


Red  would  have  been  our  warrior's  eyea 
Had  Itoderick  found  on  Sligo'a  field 
A  gory  grave, 
No  northern  chief  would  soon  arise 
So  sage  to  guide,  so  strong  to  shield, 
80  swift  to  sive. 
Long  would  Leith-Cuinn  have  wept  if  Hugh 
Had  met  the  death  he  oft  had  dealt 
Among  the  foe ; 
But,  had  our  Roderick  fallen  too. 
All  Erin  must  alas  have  felt 
The  deadly  blow ! 

What  do  I  say  ?     Ah,  woe  is  me ! 
Already  we  bewail  in  vain 
Their  fatal  fall ! 
And  Erin,  once  the  great  and  free, 

Now  vainly  mourns  her  breakless  chain 
And  iron  thrall ! 
Then,  daughter  of  O'Donnell !  dry 
Thine  overflowing  eyes,  and  turn 
Thy  heart  aside ; 
For  Adam's  race  is  born  to  die. 
And  sternly  the  sepulchral  urn 
Mocks  human  pride ! 


Look  not,  nor  sigh,  for  earthly  throne, 
Nor  place  thy  trust  in  arm  of  clay — 
But  on  thy  knees 
Uplift  thy  soul  to  God  alone. 

For  all  things  go  their  destined  way 
As  he  decrees. 
Embrace  the  faithful  crucifix. 

And  seek  the  path  of  pain  and  prayer 
Thy  Saviour  trod ! 
Nor  let  thy  spirit  intermix 

With  earthly  hope  and  worldly  care 
Its  groans  to  God  ! 

And  thou,  0  mighty  Lord !  whose  ways 
Are  far  above  our  feeble  minds 
To  understand, 
Sustain  us  in  these  doleful  days, 

And  render  light  the  chain  that  binds 
Our  fallen  land  ! 
Look  down  upon  our  dreary  state. 
And  through  the  ages  that  may  still 
Roll  sadly  on. 
Watch  thou  o'er  hapless  Erin's  fate, 
And  shield  at  least  from  darker  ill 
The  blood  of  Conn ! 


RICHARD    FLECKNOE. 

Born  1600  — Died  1678. 


[Richard  Flecknoe  was  born  probably 
about  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  or  beginning 
of  the  seventeenth  century.  His  first  work, 
Hierothalamium ;  or,  the  Heavenly  Nuptials, 
appeared  in  1626;  and  Marvel,  who  met 
him  in  Rome  about  1643,  speaks  of  him  as 
then  an  old  man.  He  also  calls  him  "  priest, 
poet,  and  musician".  His  place  of  birth  was 
Ireland,  and  in  early  life  he  was  a  Jesuit, 
if  not  a  priest.  This  last  character  he  ceased 
to  assume  after  the  Restoration.  From 
Rome,  Flecknoe,  who  was  a  considerable 
traveller,  moved  to  Lisbon,  where  he  re- 
mained some  time,  and  was  kindly  treated 
by  King  John  of  Portugal.  From  Lisbon, 
in  1646,  he  made  a  voyage  to  Brazil,  by  per- 
mission of  the  king,  who  presented  him  with 
two  hundred  crowns  as  a  contribution  to- 
wards his  expenses.  In  1650  he  returned 
again  to  Lisbon,  and  began  to  write  his 
Travels  of  Ten  Years  in  Europe,  Asia,  Afrique, 
and  America.  In  1654  he  printed  his  Love's 
Dominion,  a  Dramatick  Piece,  and  dedicated 
it  to  Lady  Elizabeth  Claypole.  This  was 
afterwards  reprinted  in  1664  under  the  title 
of  Love's  Kingdom.  In  1667  appeared  his 
comedy  Demoiselles  a  la  Mode,  and  in  1670 


his  Moral  Epigrams,  dedicated  to  the  queen, 
daughter  of  the  King  of  Portugal.  Of  the 
other  works  of  Flecknoe  those  most  deserv- 
ing mention  are,  Ermina,  or  the  Chaste  Lady, 
and  his  Diarium,  or  Joxirnal,  in  burlesque 
verse.     He  died  in  1678.] 


SILENCE.' 


Still-born  Silence,  thou  that  art 

Floodgate  of  the  deeper  heart, 

Offspring  of  a  heavenly  kinde, 

Frost  0'  th'  month,  and  thaw  0'  th'  mind ; 

Secrecy's  confidant,  and  he 

Who  makes  religion  mystery. 


OF   DRINKING. 

The  fountains  drink  caves  subterren, 
The  rivulets  drink  the  fountains  dry ; 

Brooks  drink  those  rivulets  again. 
And  then  some  river  gliding  by ; 

Until  some  irulphing  sea  drink  them, 

And  ocean  drinks  up  that  again. 

1  This  and  the  next  piece  are  from  Miscellanea,  or 
Poems  of  All  Scn'ts. 


EICHAED  FLECKNOE. 


Of  ocean  then  does  drink  the  sky ; 

When  having  brew'd  it  into  rain, 
The  earth  with  drink  it  does  supply, 

And  plants  do  drink  up  that  again. 
When  turned  to  liquor  in  the  vine, 
'Tis  our  turn  next  to  drink  the  wine. 

By  this  who  does  not  plainly  see, 

How  into  our  throats  at  once  is  hurl'd- 

Whilst  merrily  we  drinking  be — 
The  quintessence  of  all  the  world? 

Whilst  all  drink  then  in  land,  air,  sea, 

Let  us  too  drink  as  well  as  they. 


ON   TRAVEL.i 


It  is  not  travel  makes  the  man,  'tis  true. 
Unless  a  man  could  travel,  sir,  like  you. 
By  putting  off  the  worst  and  putting  on 
The  best  of  every  country  where  they  come ; 
Their  language,  manners,  fashions,  and  their  use, 
Purg'd  from  the  dross,  and  stript  from  the  abuse, 
Until  at  last  in  manners  they  become 
New  men  and  creatures  at  their  coming  home ; 
Wliilst  your  pied  traveller,  who  nothing  knows 
Of  other  countries'  fashions  but  their  clothes. 
And  speaks  their  language  but  as  parrots  do. 
Only  at  best  a  broken  word  or  two, 
Goes  and  returns  the  same  he  went  again, 
By  carrying  England  still  along  with  him ; 
Or  else  returns  far  worse  by  bringing  home 
The  worst  of  every  land  where  he  does  come. 


TO   DRYDEN. 


Dryden,  the  Muse's  darling  and  delight, 

Than  whom  none  ever  flew  so  high  a  flight ; 

Nor  ever  any's  muse  so  high  did  soar 

Above  th'  poets'  empyrium  before. 

Some  go  but  to  Parnassus'  foot,  and  there 

Creep  on  the  ground,  as  if  they  reptiles  were  : 

Others  but  water  poets,  who  have  gone 

No  further  than  the  fount  of  Helicon  ; 

And  they're  but  airy  ones,  whose  muse  soars  up 

No  higher  than  to  Mount  Parnassus'  top. 

Whilst  thou  with  thine  dost  seem  t'  have  mounted 

higher 
Than  he  who  fetcht  from  heaven  celestial  fire  ! 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  OUR  LORD. 

Oh  blessed  Lord !  and  wouldst  thou  die 
For  such  a  wretched  worm  as  I ! 
This  of  thy  love's  so  great  a  proof, 
Ani;:cls  can  ne'er  admire  enough  ; 
And  all  the  love  by  far  transcends 
Of  parents  and  of  dearest  friends. 

1  This  and  the  two  pieces  foUowiiif,'  are  from  A  Col- 
lection of  the  Choicest  Epigrams  and  Characters,  1673. 


To  have  such  benefit  bestow'd 

Would  undo  any  but  a  God  ; 

And  love  itself  make  bankrupt  too. 

By  leaving  nothing  more  to  do. 

Had  any  king  done  this  for  me. 

What  wondering  at  it  there  would  be ! 

And  wondering  at  it  now  there's  none 

When  by  a  God  himself  'tis  done. 

Strange  blindness  !  man  should  more  esteem 

A  benefit  bestow'd  on  him 

By  earthly  kings,  than  what  is  given 

Unto  him  by  the  King  of  Heaven  ! 


EXTRACT   FROM   "LOVE'S   KINGDOM". 

Palemon.  Now  here,  Love,  at  thy  sacred  shrine 
I  oflfer  up  these  vows  of  mine.  — 
Father  of  dear  and  tender  thoughts, 
Thou  who  the  hardest  bosom  softs ; 
Soften  Bellinda's  heart,  and  make 
Her  but  thy  dear  impression  take, 
So  shall  I  burn  Arabian  gums. 
And  offer  up  whole  hecatombs 
Upon  thy  altar,  whilst  thy  fires 
Shall  shine  as  bright  as  my  desires. 

First  Priest.  Whilst  he  the  deity  does  invoke 
The  flame  ascends  in  troubled  smoke. 

Philander.  What  sort  of  ofi'ering  mine  shall  be, 
Divinest  Love,  's  best  known  to  thee ; 
Nor  spices  nor  Arabian  gums. 
Nor  yet  of  beasts  whole  hecatombs : 
These  are  too  low  and  earthly,  mine 
Are  far  more  heavenly  and  divine ; 
An  adamantine  faith,  and  such 
As  jealousy  can  never  touch ; 
A  constant  heart  and  loyal  breast. 
These  are  the  off'erings  thou  lovest  best. 

Second  Priest.   Love's  fires  ne'er  brighter  yet 
appeared. 
Whoe'er  thou  art  thy  vows  are  heard. 


ONE   WHO    TURNS   DAY   INTO   NIGHT.2 

He  is  the  antipodes  of  the  country  where 
he  lives,  and  with  the  Italian  begins  his 
day  with  the  first  hour  of  night ;  he  is  worse 
than  those  that  call  light  darkness  and 
darkness  light,  for  he  makes  it  so,  and  con- 
tradicts that  old  saying  that  the  day  was 
made  for  man  to  labour  in  and  the  night  to 
rest.  He  thinks  that  sentence  of  Solomon 
nothing  concerning  him,  that  all  is  vanity 
underneath  the  sun,  for  all  his  is  underneath 
the  moon :  for  the  sun's  rising  only  serves 
him  to  go  to  bed  by ;  and  as  formerly  they 
measured  time  by  water,  he  measures  it  only 


2  This  .and  the  following  extract  are  from   Choicest 
Epigrams  and  Characters. 


ROGER  BOYLE,  EARL  OF  ORRERY. 


by  fire  and  candle  liglit ;  he  alters  his  pater 
noster,  and  as  others  pray  for  their  daily 
he  prays  for  his  nightly  bread.  Meantime 
he  fears  neither  death  nor  judgment;  for 
death  is  said  to  come  like  a  thief  in  the 
night,  and  then  he  sits  up  and  watclies ;  and 
judgment  by  day,  and  then  he  is  abed  and 
sleeps.  And  if  they  charge  him  for  ill  ex- 
pense of  time,  he  only  changes  it — change 
is  no  robbery ;  «o  as,  in  fine,  if  he  have  no 
other  sins  than  that,  there  is  none  would 
have  less  to  answer  for  than  he. 


A   SOWER  OF   DISSENSION. 

He  is  the  devil's  day  labourer,  and  sows 
his  tares  for  him,  or  seeds  of  dissension,  by 
telling  you  this  and  that  such  an  one  said 


of  you,  when  you  may  be  sure  it  is  wholly 
false,  or  never  wholly  true,  he  so  alters  it 
with  his  reporting  it.  He  goes  a-fishing  for 
secrets,  and  tells  you  those  of  others  only 
to  hook  yours  out  of  you,  baiting  men  as 
they  do  fishes,  one  with  another.  He  is  like 
your  villanous  flies,  which  always  leave 
sound  places  to  light  on  sore,  and  are  such 
venomous  ones  as  even  to  make  sound  places 
sore  with  their  fly-blowing  them.  In  fine, 
they  would  set  dissension  between  man  and 
wife  the  first  day  of  their  mairiage,  and 
father  and  son  the  last  day  of  their  lives. 
Nor  will  innocence  be  ever  safe,  or  conver- 
sation innocent,  till  such  as  they  be  banished 
human  society ;  and  if  I  would  afford  them 
being  anywhere,  it  should  be  with  Ariosto's 
Discord,  among  mine  enemies.  Meantime  my 
prayer  is,  God  bless  my  friends  from  them ! 


ROGER  BOYLE,  EARL  OF  ORRERY. 

Born  1621  —  Died  1679. 


[Roger  Boyle,  Earl  of  Orrery,  was  the  fifth 
son  of  Richard,  "the  great  Earl  of  Cork". 
He  was  born  in  April,  1621,  and  was  created 
Baron  Broghill  when  only  seven  years  of 
age.  At  the  age  of  fifteen  he  became  a 
student  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  from 
which  in  a  few  years  he  was  taken  by  his 
father  and  sent  with  his  eldest  brother  to 
make  the  tour  of  France  and  Italy.  On  his 
return  he  made  his  appearance  at  the  court 
in  England,  where  he  was  received  with 
respect  and  delight,  and  during  his  stay 
there  he  married  Margaret  Howard,  sister 
to  the  Earl  of  Suftblk.  Accompanied  by  his 
wife  he  proceeded  to  Ireland,  just  at  the 
beginning  of  the  troubles  of  1641.  Here  for 
a  time  he  served  gallantly  as  a  soldier  on 
the  side  of  the  Parliamentarians,  but  on  the 
death  of  the  king  he  threw  up  his  post  in 
disgust,  and  returning  to  England  lived  pri- 
vately at  Marston,  in  Somersetshire,  till 
1649.  About  this  time  he  formed  an  inten- 
tion of  applying  to  Charles  II.  for  a  com- 
mission to  raise  forces  in  Ireland ;  but  this 
intention  reached  the  ears  of  Cromwell,  who 
visited  him,  and  dealt  with  him  so  generously 
that  he  accepted  a  post  in  the  army  of  the 
Protector.  In  a  few  days  he  was  on  his  way 
to  Ireland  with  a  few  soldiers ;  on  his  arrival 
there  he  increased  his  small  army  materi- 
ally, and  so  managed  aiFairs  as  to  present 


a  formidable  appearance  until,  on  the  15th 
August,  1649,  Cromwell  himself  landed  in 
Wexford  with  an  army  of  8000  foot  and 
4000  horse,  together  with  money  and  mate- 
rials. With  the  sad  events  that  followed 
we  are  not  here  concerned,  except  to  say 
that  Lord  Broghill  passed  through  them 
with  courage  and  addi^ess,  so  much  so  indeed 
that  Cromwell  made  him  one  of  his  privy- 
council,  and  confided  in  him  more  than  in 
almost  any  other  man.  Cromwell  also  in 
1656  sent  him  into  Scotland  to  attempt  to 
remedy  the  rough  rule  of  Monk,  and  on  his 
return  to  London  the  Protector  was  so  in- 
fluenced by  him  that  he  was  enabled  to  save 
more  than  one  noble  house  from  impending 
ruin. 

After  the  death  of  Cromwell,  Broghill  did 
his  best  to  be  of  service  to  the  new  lord- 
protector,  Richard;  but  finding  that  weak 
but  amiable  descendant  of  the  man  of  ii'on 
determined  to  be  undone  he  retired  to  his 
command  in  Munster.  There  he  soon  began 
to  busy  himself  to  bring  about  the  Resto- 
ration, and  gained  over  to  the  royal  side 
Wilson,  governor  of  Limerick,  and  Sir  Charles 
Coote,  who  held  a  command  in  the  north. 
After  the  king's  accession  Broghill  came 
to  England,  where  he  was  received  rather 
coldly  by  Charles.  After  a  time,  howevei', 
he  managed  to  show  that  he  had  been  prime 


10 


EOGER  BOYLE,   EARL  OF  ORRERY. 


mover  in  the  successful  affairs  in  Ireland, 
and  on  this  he  was  received  into  favour,  and 
soon  after,  on  the  5th  September,  1660,  he 
was  made  Earl  of  Orrery,  sworn  into  the 
privy-council,  appointed  one  of  the  lord- 
justices  as  well  as  president  of  Munster.  In 
1662,  when  the  Duke  of  Ormond  was  made 
loi'd-lieutenant,  Broghill  retired  to  his  presi- 
dency, where,  by  virtue  of  his  office,  he 
heard  and  decided  cases  in  a  court  called  the 
Residency  Court.  In  this  capacity  he  ac- 
quired such  a  reputation  that  after  the  fall 
of  Clarendon  he  was  offered  the  seals,  but 
declined  the  post  in  consequence  of  the  gout 
which  afflicted  him. 

Of  his  works  the  chief  are:  A  Poem  on 
His  Majesti/'s  Hafpy  Restoration ;  A  Poem  on 
the  Death  of  Coivley;  The  History  of  Henry  V., 
a  tragedy,  1668 ;  Mustapha,  a  tragedy,  1667- 
68 ;  The  Black  Prince,  a  tragedy,  1672 ; 
Triphon,  a  tragedy,  1672;  Parthenissa,  a 
romance,  1665 ;  A  Dream,  full  of  bold  advice 
to  the  king ;  A  Treatise  on  the  Art  of  War ; 
Poems  on  the  Fasts  and  Festivals  of  the 
Church.  After  his  death  the  following 
additional  works  were  published :  —  M7'. 
Anthony,  a  comedy,  1692 ;  Guzuron,  a  comedy, 
1693;  Herod  the  Great,  a  tragedy,  1694; 
Altemira,  a  tragedy,  placed  on  the  stage  in 
1702;  State  Letters,  1742. 

Roger  Boyle  died  16th  October,  1679, 
leaving  behind  him  a  reputation  as  a  wit, 
a  soldier,  a  statesman,  and  a  man  of  letters — 
the  last  title  being  the  one  of  which  he  was 
most  proud.] 


ON   CHRISTMAS   DAY. 

Hail,  glorious  day  which  miracles  adorn, 
Since  'twas  on  thee  eternity  was  born ! 
Hail,  glorious  day,  on  which  mankind  did  view 
The  Saviour  of  the  old  world  and  the  new! 
Hail,  glorious  day,  which  deifies  man's  race, 
Birth-day  of  Jesus,  and  through  him,  of  grace ! 
In  thy  blest  light  the  world  at  once  did  see 
Proofs  of  his  Godhead  and  humanity. 
To  prove  him  man,  he  did  from  woman  come, 
To  prove  him  God,  'twas  from  a  virgin's  womb. 
Man  ne'er  could   feign,    what  his  strange  birth 

prov'd  true. 
For  his  blest  mother  was  a  virgin  too. 

While  as  a  child  He  in  the  manger  cryes, 
Angels  proclaim  his  Godhead  from  the  skyes; 
He  to  so  vile  a  cradle  did  submit, 
'JMiat  we,  through  faith  in  him,  on  thrones  might  sit. 

Oh  prodigie  of  mercy,  which  did  make 
The  God  of  gods  our  human  nature  take ! 


And  through  our  vaile  of  flesh,  his  glory  shine, 
That  we  thereby  might  share  in  the  divine. 

Hail,  glorious  virgin,  whose  tryumphant  womb 
Blesses  all  ages  past  and  all  to  come ! 
Thou  more  than  heal'st  the  sin  by  Adam's  wife, 
She  brought  in  death,  but  thou  brought'st  endless 

life. 
No  greater  wonder  in  the  world  could  be, 
Than  thou  to  live  in  it  and  heaven  in  thee. 

Heav'n  does  thine  own  great  prophecy  attest, 
All  generations  still  shall  call  thee  blest. 
To  thee  that  title  is  most  justly  paid, 
Since  by  thy  Son  we  sons  of  God  are  made ! 


ON  THE   DAY   OF   THE   CRUCIFIXION. 

Wonderful  day ;  that  title's  due  to  thee, 
Above  all  days,  which  have  been,  or  shall  be. 
The  day,  when  order  out  of  chaos  broke ; 
The  day,  when  God  our  human  nature  took ; 
The  day,  when  Christ  ascended  from  the  tomb ; 
The  day,  when  all  the  world  must  hear  their  doom: 
Though  these  four  days,  we  justly  great  ones  call, 
Yet  when,  alas,  compar'd  to  thee,  are  small ! 
For  'twas  not  strange,  that  both  the  heav'ns  and 
earth 
From  God's  all-powerful  word  receiv'd  their  birth: 
Nor,  when  nought  else  heaven's  justice  could  atone, 
The  God  of  nature  put  our  nature  on  : 
Nor  that  he  should,  in  whose  hand  only  lies 
Th'  issues  of  life  and  death,  from  death  arise : 
Nor  that  one  general  assize  should  be, 
To  hear  from  God's  own  mouth  his  just  decree. 
These  but  the  actings  of  a  God  display. 
But  that  God  sufFer'd,  on  this  signal  day ; 
Which  miracle  amazement  did  infuse 
In  heaven,  earth,  hell,  and  all  but  in  the  Jews, 
In  whose  obdurate  souls  such  rancour  dwelt. 
As  all  the  world,  but  they,  compunction  felt. 
The  sun  from  his  bright  globe  his  lustre  strips, 
And  with  his  Maker  suffers  an  eclipse. 
The  moon  did  hide  her  face,  though  filled  with  light. 
Seeing  the  sun  at  noon  create  a  night. 
The  sacred  temple  at  the  dread  event 
Of  this  great  day  her  vaile  for  sorrow  rent. 
The  earth,  which  does  insensible  appear. 
Yet  at  this  prodigie  did  shake  with  fear; 
Hell's  sad  inhabitants  for  anger  cry'd, 
And,  by  these  signs,  knew  the  Messiah  dy'd ; 
Th'  insatiate  grave,  which  the  last  day  does  dread, 
Thinking  it  now  Avas  come,  releas'd  her  dead ! 

Prodigious  day ;  on  which  ev'n  God  did  pray 
To  God,  to  take  the  bitter  cup  away ! 
A  day  in  which  philosophy  descry'd 
That  nature  or  the  God  of  nature  dy'd. 
A  day  in  which  mortality  may  cry, 
Death,  thou  art  swallowed  up  in  victory  ! 

Oh  may  this  day  be  in  all  hearts  engrav'd ; 
This  day  in  which  God  dy'd  and  man  was  sav'd  1 


THE   HON.   MRS.   MONK. 


11 


THE    HON.     MRS.     MONK. 


Born  1677  —  Died  1715. 


[Mary,  daughter  of  Viscount  Moleswortli 
of  Swords,  and  wife  of  George  Monk,  Esq., 
was  born  in  Dublin,  in  the  year  1677  so  far 
as  we  can  ascertain.  Her  father  was  a  peei- 
of  Ireland,  and  author  of  An  Account  of  Den- 
mark; her  mother  was  sister  of  Efichard,  earl 
of  Bellamont.  While  a  mere  cliikl  she  dis- 
played great  ability  for  learning,  and  with 
very  little  help  soon  acquired  a  perfect  know- 
ledge of  the  Latin,  Spanish,  and  Italian  lan- 
guages. Reading  the  best  authors,  and  especi- 
ally the  poets  in  these  tongues,  taught  her  t(  > 
become  facile  in  verse-making,  an  ability  she 
turned  to  account  by  translating  into  English 
many  sprightly  and  philosophically  witty 
pieces.  She  also  wrote  many  original  fugi- 
tive poems,  and  had  in  contemplation  the 
production  of  something  more  important, 
when  she  was  removed  by  death  in  1715. 
at  the  early  age  of  thirty-eight.  Her  poems 
were  shortly  after  collected  by  her  father,  and 
published  under  the  title  of  Marinda :  Poemi< 
and  Translations  upon  Several  Occasions, 
1716. 

In  his  Lives  of  the  Poets  Jacob  says  that  hei- 
poems  and  translations  "  show  the  time  spirit 
and  numbers  of  poetry,  delicacy  of  turns,  and 
justness  of  thought  and  expression."  They 
are,  indeed,  remarkable  for  a  neatness  of  man- 
ner not  common  in  her  time,  and  for  a  wit 
untinged  by  the  lurid  glare  of  immodesty  that 
shone  more  or  less  out  of  the  works  of  almost 
every  other  contemporary  writer.  In  her 
hands  the  English  language  seemed  as  full  of 
sparkle  and  light  as  if  it  were  Italian,  and 
she  appeared  to  play  with  it  as  easily  as  a 
clever  swordsman  with  his  rapier.] 


ON  PROVIDENCE. 

As  a  kind  mother  with  indulgent  eye 

Views  her  fair  charge  and  melts  with  sympathy, 

And  one's  dear  face  imprints  with  kisses  sweet, 

One  to  her  bosom  clasps,  one  on  her  knee 

Softly  sustains  in  pleasing  dignity, 

And  one  permits  to  cling  about  her  feet; 

And  reads  their  various  wants  and  each  request 

In  look  or  action,  or  in  sigh  expressed: 

This  little  supplicant  in  gracious  style 

She  answers,  that  she  blesses  with  a  smile; 


Or  if  she  blames  their  suit,  or  if  approves, 

And  whether  pleased  or  grieved,  yet  still  she  loves- 

With  like  regard  high  providence  Divine 

Watches  afTectionate  o'er  human  race: 

One  feeds,  one  comforts,  does  to  all  incline, 

And  each  assists  with  kind  parental  care; 

Or  once  denying  us  some  needful  grace, 

Only  denies  to  move  an  ardent  prayer; 

Or  courted  for  imaginary  wants. 

Seems  to  deny,  but  in  denying  grants. 


ON  A   STATUE   OF   A  LADY, 

See  how  in  this  marble  statue 
Phillis  like  herself  looks  at  you; 
Nature  and  carver  were  at  strife, 
But  he  has  done  her  most  to  th'  life. 
She  made  that  frozen  breast  so  white, 
He  made  her  such  another  by't. 
She  made  her  a  most  pretty  creature, 
And  he  exactly  hit  each  feature. 
She  her  for  love  and  dalliance  chose, 
And  did  of  softest  mould  compose, 
Like  to  the  jess'mine  or  the  rose; 
But  he,  who  saw  how  she  was  grown 
Hard  and  relentless  as  a  stone, 
Did  her  with  artful  chisel  frame, 
Of  what  she  bv  her  fault  became. 


EPITAPH   ON   A   GALLANT   LADY. 

O'er  this  marble  drop  a  tear, 

Here  lies  fair  Rosalinde; 
All  mankind  was  pleased  with  her. 

And  she  with  all  mankind. 


ORPHEUS   AND   EURYDICE. 

Upon  a  time,  as  poets  tell. 
Their  Orpheus  went  down  to  hell 
To  fetch  his  wife,  nor  could  he  guess 
To  find  her  in  a  likelier  place. 

Down  he  went  singing,  as  they  say. 
And  trolling  ballads  all  the  way; 
No  wonder  that,  the  reason's  clear. 
For  then  he  was  a  widower. 


12 


THE   HON.   MRS.   MONK. 


Timber  and  stones  with  speed  did  fly 
After  his  noble  harmony; 
The  self- same  thing  I've  seen  befall 
The  woefuU'st  scraper  of  them  all. 

To  hell  he  came,  and  told  his  case, 
Torment  and  pain  straight  quit  the  place; 
Each  fiend  was  happy  when  compared 
With  such  a  wretched  wedded  bard. 

He  had  the  luck,  with  doleful  ditty, 
Deaf  Pluto  to  inspire  with  pity, 
And  got  (if  you  will  call  it  gain, 
And  not  a  plague)  his  wife  again. 

With  his  petition  he  complied. 

But  him  to  these  conditions  tied. 

That  he  should  take,  not  look  upon  her, — 

Both  hard  commands  to  man  of  honour. 

So  on  the  loving  couple  went. 

He  led  her  up  the  steep  ascent; 

But  when  the  man  does  downward  stray. 

The  woman  then  does  lead  the  way. 

The  fond  wretch  turned  his  head  too  soon; 
If  'twas  on  purpose,  'twas  well  done: 
But  if  by  chance,  a  hit  indeed 
Which  did  beyond  his  hopes  succeed. 

Happy's  the  married  wight  that  e'er 
Comes  once  to  be  a  widower; 
But  twice  of  one  wife  to  get  free 
Is  luck  in  its  extremity. 

This  is  the  first,  last  instance  of  this  kind; 
No  fool  will  e'er  again  such  fortune  find. 


RUNAWAY  LOVE. 

From  the  immortal  seats  above, 

I,  beauty's  goddess,  Queen  of  Love, 

Descend  to  see,  if  here  below 

Ye  ought  of  my  lost  Cupid  know: 

As  on  my  lap  the  other  day 

The  wanton  chit  did  sport  and  play, 

(Whether  it  was  design  or  chance) 

He  let  his  golden  arrow  glance 

On  my  left  side;  which  done,  he  fled, 

.\nd  ever  since  has  rambling  stray'd. 

I  that  am  mother  of  the  child, 

15y  nature  gentle,  soft,  and  mild. 

Come  here  to  seek  him,  and  when  found 

To  give  him  pardon  for  my  wound: 

I've  searched  ray  orb,  and  that  of  Jove, 

.\nd  the  wide  space  where  planets  move; 

I  looked  for  him  in  Mars,  his  sphere 

(For  I  had  often  seen  him  there). 


Above  I've  nothing  left  untry'd 

To  find  where  my  lov'd  boy  does  hide.  .  .  . 

Ladies,  I  know  I  must  despair 
To  find  my  boy  amongst  the  fair, 
For  though  he  pleas'd  about  you  flies. 
Basks  in  the  glances  of  your  eyes, 
Sports  in  your  lair,  and  fain  would  rest 
In  the  soft  lodging  of  your  breast; 
The  child  to  enter  strives  in  vain 
A  place  that's  guarded  by  disdain. 

With  men  I  better  fate  shall  prove, 
Whose  hearts  are  open  still  to  love: 
Tell  me  then,  sirs,  I  pray  now  do, 
Has  my  child  hid  himself  with  you? 
If  any  one  shall  show  me  where 
To  find  the  boy,  by  Styx  I  swear 
A  sacred  oath,  that  he  shall  have 
The  sweetest  kiss  I  ever  gave; 
But  he  that  brings  him  to  my  arms 
Shall  master  be  of  all  my  charms!  .  .  . 
Does  none  reply?  perhaps  he  lies 
Lurking  among  you  in  disguise. 
Has  laid  aside  his  darts  and  bow, 
That  he  may  pass  incognito; 
But  mark  these  signs,  and  you'll  discover 
(For  all  his  tricks)  the  wily  rover: 
Though  full  of  cunning,  full  of  years, 
The  chit's  so  little,  he  appears 
An  infant  yet,  and  like  a  child 
Is  forward,  restless  still,  and  wild; 
He  seems  to  sport  himself,  and  joy 
In  ev'ry  little  foolish  toy, 
Though  all  the  time  his  fell  intent 
On  wicked  mischiefs  wholly  bent: 
A  trifle  angers  him,  but  then 
A  trifle  pleases  him  again; 
At  once  there  in  his  look  appears 
Joy  mixt  with  grief,  and  smiles  with  tears.   .   .  . 
From  his  sweet  lips,  whene'er  he  speaks. 
The  lisping  accent  softly  breaks.  .   .  . 
At  first  appearance  ne'er  was  seen 
A  creature  of  an  humbler  mien ; 
He  softly  knocks,  or  stands  at  door, 
Your  kind  assistance  to  implore, 
But  soon  to  lord  it  he'll  begin 
If  once  your  pity  lets  him  in.   .  .   . 

You've  heard  the  marks  by  which  you  may 
Know  and  arrest  the  runaway: 
Sirs,  tell  me  if  he  here  does  stay! 
Does  any  hope  the  boy  to  hide, 
Th'  attempt  is  vain,  though  often  tried; 
For  who  can  think  love  to  conceal? 
Each  look,  each  word  will  love  reveal; 
He'll  force  his  way  through  all  disguise, 
Break  from  the  tongue,  start  from  the  eyes, 
As  the  false  adder,  never  to  be  charm'd, 
Tears  from  the  breast  inwhich 'twas  liid  and  warm'd! 

But  since  I  cannot  find  him  here. 
Before  I  back  to  Heav'n  repair, 
A  little  further  still  I'll  seek  the  wanderer! 


EARL  OF  ROSCOMMON. 


13 


EARL    OF    ROSCOMMON. 


Born  1633  — Died  1684. 


[Wentworth  Dillon,  Earl  of  Roscommon, 
was  born  in  1633,  and  was  the  eldest  son  of 
Sir  James  Dillon,  third  Earl  of  Roscommon. 
His  mother  was  Elizabeth  "Wentworth,  sister 
to  the  Earl  of  Stratibrd,then  Lord-lieutenant  of 
Ireland,  for  which  reason  the  poet  was  chris- 
tened by  the  name  of  Wentworth.  When 
Stratford  returned  to  England  he  brought 
young  Dillon  with  him,  and  placed  the  youth 
at  his  seat  in  Yorkshire,  under  the  tuition  of 
Dr.  Hall,  afterwards  Bishop  of  Norwich.  The 
poet  soon  learned  to  write  Latin  with  elegance 
and  correctness,  though  he  could  never  re- 
member a  single  rule  of  grammar.  On  the 
impeachment  of  Strafford  his  nephew  was  sent 
to  Caen  in  Normandy,  to  finish  his  education 
under  the  learned  Bochart.  From  Caen  he, 
after  some  time,  journeyed  to  Rome,  where 
he  busied  himself  assiduously  in  the  study  of 
antiquities,  and  in  acquiring  the  Italian  lan- 
guage, "  which,"  says  one  of  his  biographers, 
"  he  spoke  with  so  much  gi'ace  and  Hvieucy 
that  he  was  frequently  mistaken  for  a  native." 

After  the  Restoration  he  returned  to  Eng- 
land, where  he  was  made  captain  of  the  band 
of  pensioners  by  Charles  II.  Thei'e  he  in- 
dulged in  gaming,  and  fought  many  duels,  but 
before  long  he  was  obliged  to  go  into  Ireland, 
owing  to  some  dispute  with  the  lord  privy- 
seal  about  part  of  his  estate.  In  Dublin  he 
was  looked  upon  as  "  certainly  the  most  hope- 
ful young  nobleman  in  Ireland,"  and  soon  after 
his  arrival  he  was  appointed  captain  of  the 
guards.  His  vice  of  gaming  clung  to  him,  and 
involved  him  in  many  duels  and  dangerous 
adventures.  One  night  he  was  attacked  by 
three  ruffians,  but  defended  himself  so  well 
that  he  killed  one,  a  gentleman  coming  to  his 
help  disarmed  another,  and  the  third  ran 
away.  Roscommon's  ally  turned  out  to  be  a 
disbanded  officer  of  good  family,  but  in  such 
poor  circumstances  that  he  had  not  clothes  fit 
to  appear  in  at  the  castle.  However,  the 
grateful  poet  presented  him  to  the  Duke  of 
Ormond,  and  obtained  that  nobleman's  leave 
to  resign  his  commission  in  favour  of  the 
officer,  who  at  once  became  captain  of  the 
guards,  and  enjoyed  the  post  till  his  death. 
Roscommon  returned  to  London,  drawn  thither 
by  the  pleasures  of  the  court  and  the  many 
friendships  he  had  made  in  that  city. 


Soon  after  his  arrival  in  England  Roscommon 
wa.s  made  ma.ster  of  the  horse  to  the  Duchess 
of  York,  and  about  the  same  time  married  the 
eldest  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Burlington. 
Verses  began  to  flow  from  his  pen,  and  were 
highly  praised;  and  he  and  Dryden,  who  were 
close  friends,  projected  a  design  for  "fixing 
and  refining  the  standard  of  our  language." 
Johnson,  in  his  life  of  Roscommon,  expresses 
little  hope  of  this  project  ever  being  of  any 
real  use ;  but  anyhow  all  chance  of  can-ying  it 
out  was  destroyed  by  the  turbulence  of  the 
times. 

In  January,  1684,  Roscommon  decided  to 
remove  to  Rome,  as  he  foresaw  great  troubles 
in  the  state,  giving  as  his  reason  for  so  doing 
that  "it  was  best  to  sit  near  the  chimney 
when  the  chamber  smoked."  When  about  to 
make  his  move  he  was  delayed  by  the  gout, 
and  being  very  impatient,  both  of  the  pain 
and  its  stoppage  of  his  journey,  he  called  in  a 
French  quack.  This  person  dealt  with  the 
disease  so  that  he  drove  it  inwards,  where  it 
soon  became  fatal.  On  the  17th  of  Januaiy 
the  poet  died,  after  the  fervent  utterance  of 
two  lines  from  his  own  version  of  "  Dies  Irae." 

"My  God,  my  Father,  and  my  Friend, 
Do  not  forsake  me  in  my  end. " 

He  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

Roscommon  wrote  little,  but  that  little  well, 
a  thing  in  which  he  might  well  be  imitated  by 
more  than  one  of  our  modern  poets.  His  best 
works  are  his  Essay  on  Translated  Verse  and 
his  translation  of  Horaces  Art  of  Poetry.  His 
translation  of  the  "  Dies  Irte  "  is  vigorous,  and 
many  of  his  smaller  pieces,  such  as  his  "  Ode 
upon  Solitude,"  are  full  of  grace.  Johnson  says, 
"  We  must  allow  of  Roscommon,  what  Feuton 
has  not  mentioned  so  distinctly  as  he  ought, 
and  what  is  yet  very  much  to  his  honour, 
that  he  is  perhaps  the  only  correct  writer  in 
verse  before  Addison."  Pope  says  of  him  in 
one  place : — 

"To  him  the  wit  of  Greece  and  Rome  was  known, 
And  every  author's  merit  but  his  own." 

In  another  place  he  gives  him  credit  for 
morality  in  an  age  when  every  other  poet  was 
immoral : — 

"Unhappy  Dryden  !  in  all  Charles's  days 
Roscommon  only  boasts  unspotted  lays." 


14 


EAKL  OF   EOSCOMMON. 


Dryden  also  says, — 

"The  Muse's  empire  is  restored  again. 
In  Charles's  reign  and  by  Roscommon's  pen." 

Fenton  says  of  him  that  "his  imagination 
might  probably  have  been  more  fruitful  and 
sprightly  if  his  judgment  had  been  less  severe;" 
a  very  good  reason  for  the  small  quantity  but 
superior  quality  of  his  work.] 


THE    DAY    OF    JUDGMENT. 

(TRANSLATION   OF    "  mES   IR.E.") 

The  day  of  wrath,  that  dreadful  day, 
Shall  the  whole  world  in  ashes  lay, 
As  David  and  the  Sibyls  say. 

What  horror  will  invade  the  mind, 

When  the  strict  Judge,  who  would  be  kind, 

Shall  have  few  venial  faults  to  find. 

The  last  loud  trumpet's  wondrous  sound 
Shall  through  the  rending  tombs  rebound. 
And  wake  the  nations  underground. 

Nature  and  death  shall  with  surprise 

Behold  the  pale  offender  rise, 

And  view  the  Judge  with  conscious  eyes. 

Then  shall,  with  universal  dread. 
The  sacred  mystic  book  be  read. 
To  try  the  living  and  the  dead. 

The  Judge  ascends  his  awful  throne. 
He  makes  each  secret  sin  be  known, 
And  all  with  shame  confess  their  own. 

Oh  then !  what  interest  shall  I  make, 

To  save  my  last  important  stake, 

When  the  most  just  have  cause  to  quake? 

Thou  mighty,  formidable  King, 
Thou  mercy's  unexhausted  spring, 
Some  comfortable  pity  bring ! 

Forget  not  w'nat  my  ransom  cost, 
Nor  let  my  dear-bought  soul  be  lost, 
In  storms  of  guilty  terror  tost. 

Thou,  who  for  me  didst  feel  such  pain. 
Whose  precious  blood  the  cross  did  stain. 
Let  not  these  agonies  be  vain. 

Thou  whom  avenging  powers  obey. 
Cancel  my  debt  (too  great  to  pay) 
Before  the  sad  accounting  day. 

Surrounded  with  amazing  fears. 

Whose  load  my  soul  with  anguish  bears, 

I  sigh,  I  weep;  accept  my  tears. 


Thou,  who  wert  moved  with  Mary's  grief. 
And,  by  absolving  of  the  thief, 
Hast  given  me  hope,  now  give  relief. 

Eeject  not  my  unworthy  prayer. 
Preserve  me  from  that  dangerous  snare. 
Which  Death  and  gaping  Hell  prepare. 

Give  my  exalted  soul  a  place 
Among  the  chosen  right-hand  race. 
The  sons  of  God  and  heirs  of  grace. 

From  that  insatiable  abyss. 

Where  flames  devour  and  serpents  hiss, 

Promote  me  to  thy  seat  of  bliss. 

Prostrate  my  contrite  heart  I  rend. 
My  God,  my  Father,  and  my  Friend, 
Do  not  forsake  me  in  my  end. 

Well  may  they  curse  their  second  breath, 
Who  rise  to  a  reviving  death; 
Thou  great  Creator  of  mankind. 
Let  guilty  man  compassion  find. 


ODE   UPON   SOLITUDE. 

Hail,  sacred  Solitude  !  from  this  calm  bay 
I  view  the  world's  tempestuous  sea. 

And  with  wise  pride  despise 

All  those  senseless  vanities: 
With  pity  moved  for  others  cast  away 
On  rocks  of  hopes  and  fears,  I  see  them  toss'd; 
On  rocks  of  folly  and  of  vice,  I  see  them  lost: 
Some,  the  prevailing  malice  of  the  great. 

Unhappy  men,  or  adverse  fate, 
Send  deep  into  the  gulfs  of  an  afflicted  state. 
But  more,  far  more,  a  numberless  prodigious  train. 
Whilst  virtue  courts  them,  but,  alas !  in  vain. 

Fly  from  her  kind  embracing  arms. 
Deaf  to  her  fondest  call,  blind  to  her  greatest 

charms. 
And,  sunk  in  pleasure  and  in  brutish  ease, 
They  in  their  shipwreck'd  state  themselves  obdu- 
rate please. 

Hail,  sacred  Solitude !  soul  of  my  soul. 

It  is  by  thee  I  truly  live. 
Thou  dost  a  better  life  and  nobler  vigour  give; 
Dost  each  unruly  appetite  control: 
Thy  constant  quiet  fills  my  peaceful  breast 
With  unmix'd  joy,  uninterrupted  rest. 

Presuming  love  docs  ne'er  invade 

This  private  solitary  shade; 
And,  with  fantastic  wounds  by  beauty  made. 
The  Joy  has  no  alloy  of  jealousy,  hope,  and  fear. 
The  solid  comforts  of  this  happy  splicre: 

Yet  I  exalted  Love  admire, 

Friendship,  abhorring  sordid  gain, 
And  purify'd  from  Lust's  dishonest  stain: 


EARL   OF   ROSCOMMON. 


15 


Nor  is  it  for  my  solitude  unfit, 

For  I  am  with  my  friend  alone, 

As  if  we  were  but  one; 
'Tis  the  polluted  love  that  multiplies, 
But  friendship  does  two  souls  in  one  comprise. 

Here  in  a  full  and  constant  tide  doth  flow 

All  blessings  men  can  hope  to  know; 
Here  in  a  deep  recess  of  thought  we  find 
Pleasures  which  entertain   and  which  exalt  the 

mind, 
Pleasures   which   do   from   friendship  and   from 

knowledge  rise, 
Which  make  us  happy,  as  they  make  us  wise; 
Here  may  I  always  on  this  downy  grass 
Unknown,  unseen,  my  easy  minutes  pass: 
Till  with  a  gentle  force  victorious  death 

My  solitude  invade. 
And,  stopping  for  a  while  my  breath, 
With  ease  convey  me  to  a  better  shade. 


IMITATION  OF   THE   TWENTY -SECOND 
ODE  OF  FIRST  BOOK  OF  HORACE. 

Virtue  (dear  friend)  needs  no  defence, 
No  arms  but  its  own  innocence : 
Quivers  and  bows,  and  poison'd  darts, 
Are  only  used  by  guilty  hearts. 

An  honest  mind  safely  alone 
May  travel  through  the  burning  zone; 
Or  through  the  deepest  Scythian  snows, 
Or  where  the  fam'd  Hydaspes  flows. 

While,  ruled  by  a  resistless  fire, 
Our  great  Orinda  I  admire. 
The  hungry  wolves,  that  see  me  stray, 
TJnarm'd  and  single,  run  away. 

Set  me  in  the  remotest  place 
That  ever  Neptune  did  embrace; 
When  there  her  image  fills  my  breast, 
Helicon  is  not  half  so  blest. 

Leave  me  upon  some  Libyan  plain, 
So  she  my  fancy  entertain. 
And  when  the  thirsty  monsters  meet 
They'll  all  pay  homage  to  my  feet. 

The  magic  of  Orinda's  name. 

Not  only  can  their  fierceness  tame. 

But,  if  that  mighty  word  I  once  rehearse. 

They  seem  submissively  to  war  in  verse. 


ESSAY  ON  TRANSLATED  VERSE. 

Happy  that  author,  whose  correct  essay 
Repairs  so  well  our  old  Horatian  way: 
And  happy  you,  who  (by  propitious  fate) 
On  great  Apollo's  sacred  standard  wait, 


.\nd  with  strict  discipline  instructed  right. 
Have  learned  to  use  your  arms  before  you  fight. 
Hut  since  the  press,  the  pulpit,  and  the  stage, 
Conspire  to  censure  and  expose  our  age, 
Provok'd  too  far,  we  resolutely  must, 
To  the  few  virtues  that  we  have,  be  ju.st, 
For  who  have  longed,  or  who  have  laboured  more 
To  search  the  treasures  of  the  Roman  store; 
Or  dig  in  Grecian  mines  for  purer  ore?  .   .   . 

The  first  great  work  (a  task  perform'd  by  few) 
Ls,  that  yourself  may  to  yourself  be  true: 
No  mask,  no  tricks,  no  favour,  no  reserve; 
Dissect  your  mind,  examine  every  nerve. 
Whoever  vainly  on  his  strength  depends, 
Begins  like  Virgil,  but  like  Msevius  ends. 
That  wretch  (in  spite  of  his  forgotten  rhymes). 
Condemned  to  live  to  all  succeeding  times. 
With  pompous  nonsense  and  a  bellowing  sound 
Sung  lofty  Ilium  trembling  to  the  ground. 
And  (if  my  Muse  can  through  past  ages  see), 
That  noisy,  nauseous,  gaping  fool  was  he; 
Exploded,  when  with  universal  scorn. 
The  mountain  labour'd  and  a  mouse  was  bom. 
.  .  .   Each  poet  with  a  diflferent  talent  writes. 
One  praises,  one  instructs,  another  bites. 
Horace  did  ne'er  aspire  to  epic  bays, 
Nor  lofty  Maro  stoop  to  lyric  lays. 
Examine  how  your  humour  is  inclin'd. 
And  which  the  ruling  passion  of  your  mind; 
Then  seek  a  poet  who  your  way  does  bend, 
And  choose  an  author  as  you  choose  a  friend. 

United  by  this  sympathetic  bond. 
You  grow  familiar,  intimate,  and  fond; 
Your  thoughts,  your  words,  your  styles,  your  souls 
agree. 

No  longer  his  interpreter,  but  he  .  .   . 
Immodest  words  admit  of  no  defence; 

For  want  of  decency  is  want  of  sense.   .   .   . 
Yet  'tis  not  all  to  have  a  subject  good, 

It  must  delight  as  when  'tis  understood. 

He  that  brings  fulsome  objects  to  my  view 

(As  many  old  have  done  and  many  new). 

With  nauseous  images  my  fancy  fills, 

And  all  goes  down  like  oxymel  of  squills.   .  .  . 
On  sure  foundations  let  your  fabric  rise, 

And  with  attractive  majesty  surprise. 

Not  by  affected  meretricious  arts, 

But  strict  harmonious  .symmetry  of  parts; 

Which  through  the  whole  insensibly  must  pass. 

With  vital  heat  to  animate  the  mass.  .   .   . 
Pride  (of  all  others  the  most  dangerous  fault) 

Proceeds  from  want  of  sense  or  want  of  thought. 

The  men  who  labour  and  digest  things  most, 

Will  be  much  apter  to  despond  than  boast; 

For  if  your  author  be  profoundly  good, 

'Twill  cost  you  dear  before  he's  understood. 

How  many  ages  since  has  Virgil  writ ! 

How  few  there  are  who  understand  him  yet ! 

.  .  .  Words  in  one  language  elegantly  us'd, 

Will  hardly  in  another  be  excus'd. 


16 


THE   HON.   ROBERT   BOYLE. 


And  some  that  Rome  admir'd  in  Caesar's  time, 
Jlay  neither  suit  our  genius  nor  our  clime. 
The  genuine  sense,  intelligibly  told, 
Shows  a  translator  both  discreet  and  bold.    .   .   . 

I  pity  from  my  soul,  unhappy  men, 
Compell'd  by  want  to  prostitute  their  pen; 
Who  mu.st,  like  lawyers,  either  starve  or  plead. 
And  follow,  right  or  wrong,  where  guineas  lead! 
But  you,  Pompilian,  wealthy,  pamper'd  heirs. 
Who  to  your  country  owe  your  swords  and  cares, 
Let  no  vain  hope  your  easy  mind  seduce, 
For  rich  ill  poets  are  without  excuse.   .  .  . 


Of  many  faults  rhyme  is  perhaps  the  cau.se; 
Too  strict  to  rhyme  we  slight  more  useful  laws, 
For  that,  in  Greece  or  Rome,  was  never  known, 
Till  by  barbarian  deluges  o'erflown: 
Subdued,  undone,  they  did  at  last  obey. 
And  change  their  own  for  their  invaders'  way. 
.   .   .   Oh  may  I  live  to  hail  the  glorious  day, 
And  sing  loud  paeans  through  the  crowded  way. 
When  in  triumphant  state  the  British  Muse, 
True  to  herself,  shall  barbarous  aid  refuse. 
And  in  the  Roman  majesty  appear, 
Which  none  know  better,  and  none  come  so  near. 


THE    HON.    ROBERT    BOYLE. 

Born  1626  — Died  1691. 


[Robert  Boyle,  "  a  most  distinguished  philo- 
sopher and  chemist,  and  an  exceedingly  good 
man,"  was  seventh  son  of  Richard,  "  the  great 
Earl  of  Cork,"  and  brother  of  Roger  Boyle, 
Earl  of  Orrery,  of  whom  we  have  already 
spoken.  He  was  born  at  Lismore,  in  the  south 
of  Ireland,  on  the  25th  January,  1626,  and 
was  early  committed  to  the  care  of  a  country 
nurse,  with  instructions  to  bring  him  up  as 
hardy  as  if  he  had  been  her  own  son.  When 
about  three  years  old  he  lost  his  mother,  and 
shortly  after  had  a  narrow  escape  from  being 
drowned.  A  little  later,  while  in  his  foui-th 
year,  he  was  sent  to  Eton,  and  placed  in  charge 
of  the  provost,  Sir  Henry  Wootton,  an  old 
friend  and  intimate  acquaintance  of  his  father. 
At  Eton  he  remained  for  three  or  four  years, 
when  his  father  took  him  to  his  own  house  at 
Stalbridge  in  Doi-setshire,  where  he  had  for 
tutor  the  minister  of  the  place.  In  1638  he 
went  with  his  father  to  London,  and  at  the 
end  of  October  in  the  same  year  he  and  his 
brother  Francis  were  sent  abroad  on  their 
travels  under  the  charge  of  a  Mr.  Marcombes. 
At  Geneva,  where  their  tutor  had  his  family, 
they  halted  and  pursued  their  studies  quietly 
for  a  time,  and  there  Robert  renewed  and 
made  more  perfect  his  acquaintance  with 
mathematics.  A  writer  in  the  National 
Encyclopcedia  says,  "At  Geneva  the  occur- 
rence of  an  awful  thunderstorm  awakened 
religious  feelings  which  actuated  him  greatly 
in  after  life." 

Towards  the  end  of  1641  he  quitted  Geneva, 
and  pa-ssing  through  Switzerland  visited  most 
of  the  principal  cities  and  towns  in  Italy. 
During   the   winter  he   stayed   at   Florence, 


where  he  spent  his  time  in  reading  Italian 
history  and  acquiring  the  language.  After 
seeing  Rome  he  and  his  brother  visited 
several  other  places,  and  in  May,  1642,  they 
reached  Marseilles.  Here  they  had  letters 
from  their  father,  telling  of  the  outbreak  of 
the  Irish  rebellion,  and  saying  how  hard  put 
to  he  had  been  to  procure  the  £250  he  sent 
to  carry  them  home.  The  money  never 
reached  their  hands,  and  they  were  forced  to 
accompany  their  tutor  to  Geneva,  where,  after 
a  time,  some  money  was  raised  on  jewels,  by 
means  of  which  they  continued  their  journey 
to  England.  When  they  arrived  in  1644  they 
found  their  father  dead. 

In  1646  Boyle  retired  to  his  manor  of  Stal- 
bridge, left  him  by  his  father,  and  there  ap- 
plied himself  with  great  industry  to  studies  of 
various  kinds,  but  chiefly  to  those  of  chemistry 
and  natural  philosophy.  About  this  time,  too, 
he  formed  one  of  the  little  band  of  men  who 
held  weekly  meetings  for  the  promotion  of 
philosophy  and  science  under  the  title  of  the 
Philosophical  College,  which,  on  the  Restora- 
tion, burst  into  full  bloom  as  the  Royal  Society. 
In  1652  he  went  over  to  Ireland  to  look  after 
his  property,  and  after  a  second  visit  in  1654 
he  went  to  live  at  Oxford,  where  he  stayed 
chiefly  till  1668.  At  Oxford  he  found  most  of 
the  members  of  the  Philosophical  College,  and 
while  there  he  invented  the  air-pump. 

After  the  Restoration  he  was  treated  with 
great  respect  by  the  king  and  those  in  author- 
ity ;  but  he  resolutely  refused  their  request 
that  he  should  enter  into  holy  orders,  thinking 
that  he  could  be  of  more  benefit  to  religion  as 
a  layman.     In  1660  he  published  his  New  Ex- 


THE   HON.   KOBERT   BOYLE. 


17 


pertinents;  in  the  same  year  also  appeared  his 
Seraphic  Love,  a  piece  which  had  been  written 
as  early  as  1648.  In  1661  he  issued  certain 
physiological  essays  and  other  tracts ;  and  in 
1662  his  Sceptical  Chemist.  All  these  were 
successful,  and  were  reprinted — some  of  them 
more  than  once — within  a  few  years.  In  1663, 
on  the  incorporation  of  the  Royal  Society,  he 
was  appointed  one  of  the  council.  In  the  same 
year  he  published  Coiisiderations  touching  the 
Usefulness  of  Experimental  Natural  Philo- 
sophy;  Experiments  upon  Colours,  a  curious 
and  useful  work;  and  Corisiderations  upon  the 
Style  of  the  Holy  Scriptures.  In  the  year 
1665  appeared  his  Occasional  Reflections  upon 
Several  Subjects,  a  work  satirized  by  Swift, 
but  which  is  said  to  have  actually  given  that 
genius  his  first  hint  of  Gulliver's  Travels.  In 
that  year  also  was  issued  New  Experiments 
and  Observations  on  Cold.  On  the  8th  March, 
1666,  he  wrote  his  celebrated  letter  to  Mr. 
Stubbe  on  the  controversy  as  to  Valentine 
Greatrakes,  who  professed  to  cure  diseases  by 
stroking.  This  letter  is  upwai-ds  of  twenty 
octavo  pages  in  length,  "very  learned  and 
very  judicious,  wonderfully  correct  in  diction 
and  style,  remarkably  clear  in  method  and 
form,  highly  exact  in  the  observations  and 
remarks,  and  abounding  in  pertinent  and 
curious  facts.  Yet  it  appears  it  was  written 
within  the  compass  of  a  single  morning."  In 
this  year  also  he  published  Hydrostatical 
Paradoxes  and  The  Origin  of  Forms  and 
Qualities. 

In  1668  Boyle  settled  permanently  in  London 
in  tlie  house  of  his  beloved  sister  Lady  Rane- 
lagh,  and  from  this  until  his  death  work  after 
work  appeared  from  his  pen  in  rapid  succes- 
sion. We  cannot  do  more  than  name  the 
chief  of  them  here: — Continuation  of  Experi- 
ments touching  the  Spring  and  Weight  of  Air, 
1669 ;  Tracts  about  the  Cosmical  Qualities  of 
Things,  1670;  Essay  on  the  Origin  and  Virtue 
of  Oems,  1672;  Essays  on  the  Strange  Subtlety, 
&c.,  of  Effluvia,  1673;  The  Excellence  of  Theo- 
logy, 1673;  The  Saltncss  of  the  Sea,  &c.,  1674; 
Some  Considerations  about  the  Iteconcilableness 
of  Reason  and  Religion,  1675;  Experiments 
about  the  Mechanical  Origin  or  Production  of 
Particular  Qualities,  1676;  Historical  Account 
of  a  Degradation  of  Gold  by  an  Anti-Elixir, 
1678;  Discourse  of  Things  above  Reason,  1681; 
Memoirs  on  the  Natural  History  of  Human 
Blood,  1684;  Essay  on  the  Great  Effects  of 
Even,  Languid,  and  Unheeded  Motion,  1690; 
Of  the  High  Veneration  Man's  Intellect  Owes 
to  God,  1690;  The  Christian  Virtuoso,  1690. 
Vol.  I. 


In  1677  Boyle,  who  was  a  director  of  the 
East  India  (Company,  printed  at  Oxford  and 
sent  abroad  500  copies  of  the  Gospels  and 
Acts  of  the  Apostles  in  the  Malayan  tongue, 
and  in  November  of  this  year  he  was  ap- 
pointed President  of  the  Rojal  Society.  In 
the  early  part  of  1689  his  health  began  to 
decline,  and  on  the  18th  of  July,  1691,  he 
made  his  will.  In  October  of  that  year  he 
grew  worse,  chiefly  owing,  it  is  supposed,  to 
the  illness  of  his  favourite  sister,  who  died 
on  the  23rd  December.  On  the  30th  he 
followed  her,  dying  peacefully  in  the  sixty- 
fifth  year  of  his  age. 

Among  the  good  deeds  of  Boyle's  life  we 
must  not  omit  to  mention  his  large  contribu- 
tions to  the  printing  and  publishing  of  Bibles 
for  Ireland,  Scotland,  and  Wales ;  his  contri- 
butions towards  propagating  Christianity  in 
America ;  his  large  expenditure  over  the  pub- 
lication and  dispersal  of  an  Arabic  edition  of 
Grotius,  On  the  Truth  of  the  Christian  Reli- 
gion; and  above  all,  his  establishment  of 
the  Boyle  Lectures  in  Defence  of  Revealed 
Religion. 

Boyle  never  mari'ied ;  but  in  early  life  it 
is  said  he  loved  a  fair  daughter  of  Gary,  Eail 
of  Monmouth,  and  to  this  we  owe  the  pro- 
duction of  Seraphic  Love.^ 


FISHING  WITH  A  COUNTERFEIT   FLY. 

Being  at  length  come  to  the  river-side  we 
quickly  began  to  fall  to  the  sport  for  which 
we  came  thither,  and  Eugenius  finding  the 
fish  forward  enough  to  bite,  thought  fit  to 
spare  his  flies  till  he  might  have  more  need  of 
them,  and  therefore  tied  to  his  line  a  hook, 
furnished  with  one  of  those  counterfeit  flies 
which  in  some  neighbouring  countries  are 
much  used,  and  which,  being  made  of  the 
feathers  of  wild  fowl,  are  not  subject  to  be 
drenched  by  the  water,  whereon  those  birds 
are  wont  to  swim.  This  fly  being  for  a  pretty 
while  scarce  any  often  er  tlu'own  in  than  the 
hook  it  hid  was  drawn  up  again  with  a  fish 
fastened  to  it :  Eugenius  looking  on  us  with 
a  smiling  countenance  seemed  to  be  very 
proud  of  his  success,  which  Eusebius  taking 
notice  of.  Whilst  (says  he)  we  smile  to  see 
how  easily  you  beguile  these  silly  fishes,  that 
you  catch  so  fast  with  this  false  bait,  possibly 
we  are  not  much  less  unwary  ourselves,  and 
the  world's  treacherous  pleasures  do  little  less 
delude  both  me  and  you :  for  Eugenius  (con- 


18 


THE   HON.   ROBERT   BOYLE. 


tinues  he),  as  the  apostles  were  fishers  of  men 
in  a  good  sense,  so  their  and  our  grand  adver- 
sary is  a  skilful  lisher  of  men  in  a  bad  sense^ 
and  too  often  in  his  attempts  to  cheat  fond 
mortals  meets  with  a  success  as  great  and  easy 
as  you  now  find  yours.  And  certainly  that 
tempter,  as  the  Scripture  calls  him,  does  sadly 
delude  us,  even  when  we  rise  at  his  best  baits, 
and,  as  it  were,  his  true  flies :  for,  alas !  the 
best  things  he  can  give  are  very  worthless, 
most  of  them  in  their  own  nature,  and  aU  of 
them  in  comparison  of  what  they  must  cost  us 
to  enjoy  them.  But  however  riches,  power, 
and  the  delights  of  the  senses  are  real  goods 
in  their  kind,  though  they  be  not  of  the  best 
kind,  yet,  alas !  many  of  us  are  so  fitted  for 
deceits  that  we  do  not  put  this  subtle  angler 
to  make  use  of  his  true  baits  to  catch  us.  We 
suffer  him  to  abuse  us  much  more  grossly,  and 
to  cheat  us  with  empty  titles  of  honour,  or  the 
ensnaring  smiles  of  great  ones,  or  disquieting 
drudgeries  dignified  with  the  specious  names 
of  great  employments,  and  though  these,  when 
they  must  be  obtained  by  sin,  or  are  proposed 
as  the  recompenses  for  it,  be,  as  I  was  going 
to  say,  but  the  devil's  counterfeit  flies,  yet,  as 
if  we  were  fond  of  being  deceived,  we  greedily 
swallow  the  hook  for  flies  that  do  but  look 
like  such,  so  dim-sighted  are  we  as  well  to 
what  vice  shows  as  to  what  it  hides.  Let  us 
not  then  (concludes  Eusebius)  rise  at  baits, 
whereby  we  may  be  sure  to  be  either  grossly 
or  at  least  exceedingly  deceived;  for,  whoever 
ventures  to  commit  a  sin,  to  taste  the  luscious 
sweets  that  the  fruition  of  it  seems  to  promise, 
certainly  is  so  far  deceived  as  to  swallow  a 
true  hook  for  a  bait,  which  either  proves  but 
a  counterfeit  fly  or  hides  that  under  its  allur- 
ing show  which  makes  it  not  need  to  be  a 
counterfeit  one  to  deceive  him. 


ON   A   GLOW-WORM   IN  A  PHIAL. 

If  this  luihappy  worm  had  been  as  despic- 
able as  the  other  reptiles  that  crept  up  and 
down  the  hedge  whence  I  took  him,  he  might 
as  well  a-s  they  have  been  left  there  still,  and 
his  own  obscurity  as  well  as  that  of  the  night 
had  preserved  him  from  the  confinement  he 
now  suffers.     And  if,  as  he  sometimes  for  a 


pretty  while  withdrew  that  luminous  liquor, 
that  is  as  it  were  the  candle  to  this  dark  Ian- 
thorn,  he  had  continued  to  forbear  the  disclos- 
ing of  it,  he  might  have  deluded  my  search 
and  escaped  his  present  confinement. 

Rare  qualities  may  sometimes  be  preroga- 
tives without  being  advantages.  And  though 
a  needless  ostentation  of  one's  excellencies 
may  be  more  glorious,  yet  a  modest  conceal- 
ment of  them  is  usually  more  safe,  and  an  un- 
seasonable disclosure  of  flashes  of  wit  may 
sometimes  do  a  man  no  other  service  than  to 
direct  his  adversaries  how  they  may  do  him  a 
mischief. 

And  as  though  this  worm  be  lodged  in  a 
crystalline  prison,  through  which  it  has  the 
honour  to  be  gazed  at  by  many  eyes,  and 
among  them  are  some  that  are  said  to  shine 
far  more  in  the  day  than  this  creature  does  in 
the  night,  yet  no  doubt,  if  he  could  express 
a  sense  of  the  condition  he  is  in,  he  would 
bewail  it,  and  think  himself  unhappy  in  an 
excellency  which  procures  him  at  once  admir- 
ation and  captivity,  by  the  former  of  which 
he  does  but  give  others  a  pleasure,  whUe  in 
the  latter  he  himself  resents  a  misery. 

This  ofttimes  is  the  fate  of  a  great  wit, 
whom  the  advantage  he  has  of  ordinary  men 
in  knowledge,  the  light  of  the  mind  exposes 
to  so  many  effects  of  other  men's  importunate 
curiosity  as  to  turn  his  prerogative  into  a 
trouble ;  the  light  that  ennobles  him  tempts 
inquisitive  men  to  keep  him  as  upon  the  score 
we  do  this  glow-worm  from  sleeping,  and  his 
conspicuousness  is  not  more  a  friend  to  his 
fame  than  an  enemy  to  his  quiet,  for  men 
allow  such  much  praise  but  little  rest.  They 
attract  the  eye  of  othere  but  are  not  suffered 
to  shut  their  own,  and  find  that  by  a  very  dis- 
advantageous bargain  they  are  reduced  for 
that  imaginary  good  called  fame  to  pay  that 
real  blessing  liberty. 

And  as  though  this  luminous  creature  be 
himself  imprisoned  in  so  close  a  body  as  glass, 
yet  the  light  that  ennobles  him  is  not  thereby 
restrained  from  difiusing  itself,  so  there  are 
certain  truths  that  have  in  them  so  much  of 
native  light  or  evidence,  that  by  the  personal 
distresses  of  the  proposer  it  cannot  be  hidden 
or  restrained,  but  in  spite  of  prisons  it  shines 
freely,  and  procures  the  teachers  of  it  ad- 
miration even  when  it  cannot  procure  them 
liberty. 


THOMAS   DUFFET. 


19 


THOMAS  DUFFET. 

Floukished  about  1676. 


[Of  Thomas  DufiFet  very  little  is  known 
except  that  he  was  an  Irishman  who  kept  at 
first  a  milliner's  shop  in  the  New  Exchange, 
London,  and  who  while  thus  engaged  dis- 
covered an  ability  for  song-writing  and  bur- 
lesque. This  latter  talent,  however,  has  got 
him  into  .sad  disfavour  with  some  of  his  bio- 
graphers, the  editors  of  Biographia  JJramatica 
taking  him  hotly  to  task  for  his  presumption 
in  laughing  at  Dryden,  Shadwell,  and  Settle. 
Indeed,  so  occupied  with  this  part  of  their 
task  were  they  that  they  neglected  even  to 
state  the  time  of  his  death  or  to  mention  a 
single  song  of  his,  and  all  encyclop«dic  bio- 
graphers from  then  till  now  have  followed 
their  example.  Indeed  in  many  cases  their 
words  have  simply  been  reprinted,  although 
their  reverence  for  Settle  and  Shadwell  is  but 
an  absurdity  to  us ;  while  we  all  know  that 
Dryden,  though  a  great  poet,  was  not  a  great 
dramatist,  and  his  plays  are  just  the  kind  for 
a  clever  burlesque  writer  to  delight  in. 

That  Buffet's  burlesques  were  successful 
even  the  editors  of  Biographia  Dramatica 
acknowledge,  but  they  declare  that  for  the 
favourable  reception  they  found  "  Mr.  Duffet 
stood  more  indebted  to  the  great  names  of 
those  authors  whose  works  he  attempted  to 
burlesque  and  ridicule  than  to  any  merit  of 
his  own ".  Of  these  burlesques  six  are  at 
present  known:  The  Amorous  Old  Woman 
(doubtful) ;  Spanish  Rogue ;  Empress  of  Mo- 
rocco ;  Mock  Tempest ;  Beauty's  Triumph ;  and 
Psyche  Debauched.  The  best  of  these,  say 
the  biographers  just  quoted,  met  with  the 
worst  success — a  thing  not  uncommon  even 
in  our  days. 

However,  it  is  as  a  song- writer  that  Duffet 
is  now  remembered,  and  as  such  only  do  we 
care  to  study  him  and  present  him  here. 
His  songs  are  delightful  of  their  kind,  an 
artificial  kind  to  be  sure,  but  it  was  an  age  of 
artificialities.  Something  of  the  delicate  un- 
real grace, — as  of  a  duchess  playing  at  milk- 
maid with  a  Dresden -China  petticoat  all 
nosegays  and  true-lover-knots, — which  gave 
their  most  exquisite  inspiration  to  Purcell 
and  Arne,  is  to  be  found  in  the  songs  of  the 
accomplished  ex -man -milliner;  something, 
too,  of  the  gay  and  cold  sparkle  of  Pope  is  in 
his  praises  of  Celia.] 


SINCE  COELIA'S   MY  FOE. 

Since  Coelia's  my  foe, 
To  a  desert  I'll  go, 

Where  some  river 

For  ever 
Shall  echo  my  woe. 

The  trees  shall  appear 
More  relenting  than  her, 

In  the  morning 

Adorning 
Each  leaf  with  a  tear. 

When  I  make  my  sad  moan 
To  the  rocks  all  alone, 

From  each  hollow 

Will  follow 
Some  pitiful  groan. 

But  with  silent  disdain 
She  requites  all  my  pain, 

To  my  mourning 

Eeturning 
No  answer  again. 

Ah,  Coelia!  adieu, 
When  I  cease  to  pursue, 

You'll  discover 

No  lover 
Was  ever  so  true. 

Your  sad  shepherd  flies 
From  those  dear  cruel  eyes. 

Which  now  seeing. 

His  being 
Decays,  and  he  dies. 

Yet  'tis  better  to  run 

To  the  fate  we  can't  shun, 

Than  for  ever 

To  strive  for 
What  cannot  be  won. 

What,  ye  gods,  have  I  done, 
That  Amyntor  alone 

Is  so  treated. 

And  hated, 
For  loving  but  one? 


COME  ALL  YOU  PALE  LOVERS. 

Come  all  you  pale  lovers  that  sigh  and  complain, 
While  your  beautiful  tyrants  but  laugh  at  your 
pain, 

Come  practise  with  me 

To  be  happy  and  free. 


20 


GEORGE   FARQUHAR 


In  spite  of  inconstancy,  pride,  or  disdain. 
I  see  and  I  love,  and  the  bliss  I  enjoy 
No  rival  can  lessen  nor  envy  destroy. 

My  mistress  so  fair  is,  no  language  or  art 
Can  describe  her  perfection  in  every  part; 
Her  mien's  so  genteel. 
With  such  ease  she  can  kill. 
Each  look  with  new  passion  she  captures  my  heart. 

Her  smiles,  the  kind  message  of  love  from  her 

eyes, 
When  she  frowns  'tis  from  others  her  flame  to 
disguise. 

Thus  her  scorn  or  her  .spite 
I  convert  to  delight, 
As  the  bee  gathers  honey  wherever  he  flies. 

My  vows  she  receives  from  her  lover  unknown. 
And  I  fancy  kind  answers  although  I  have  none. 
How  blest  should  I  be 
If  our  hearts  did  agree. 
Since  already  I  find  so  much  pleasure  alone. 
I  see  and  I  love,  and  the  bliss  I  enjoy 
No  rival  can  lessen  nor  envy  destroy. 


UNCERTAIN   LOVE. 

The  labouring  man  that  plants  or  sows, 
His  certain  times  of  profit  knows; 
Seamen  the  roughest  tempest  scorn, 
Hoping  at  last  a  rich  return. 

But  my  too  much  loved  Celia's  mind 
Is  more  unconstant  and  unkind 
Than  stormy  weather,  sea,  or  wind. 
Now  with  assured  hope  raised  high 
I  think  no  man  so  blest  as  I — 
Hope  that  a  dying  saint  may  own, 
To  see  and  hear  her  speak  alone. 

But  ere  my  swiftest  thought  can  thence 

Convey  a  blessing  to  my  sense, 

My  hope,  like  fairy  treasure's  gone, 

Although  I  never  made  it  known; 

From  all  untruth  my  heart  is  clean. 

No  other  love  can  enter  in, 

Yet  Celia's  ne'er  will  come  again. 


GEORGE    FARQUHAR. 

Born  1678  — Died  1707. 


[George  Farquhar,  "  the  fine  and  noble- 
minded,  and,  in  every  sense,  the  honourable 
Farquhar— one  in  the  shining  list  of  geniuses 
that  adorn  the  biographical  page  of  Ireland," 
was  born  in  Londonderry  in  the  year  1678. 
In  that  city  he  received  the  rudiments  of 
education,  and  befox-e  leaving  it  he  began  to 
display  the  bent  of  his  genius.  In  1694  he 
entered  at  Trinity  College  in  Dublin,  and  for 
a  time  made  great  progress  in  his  studies. 
However,  being  of  a  volatile  nature,  the  steady- 
going  life  of  the  university  grew  distasteful 
to  him,  and  having  formed  an  intimacy  with 
the  celebrated  actor  Wilks,  he  obtained  a 
situation  in  the  Dublin  theatre.  Being  hand- 
some in  person  and  gifted  with  ability,  his 
appearance  was  successful,  and  he  would 
doubtless  have  remained  an  actor  aU  his  life 
were  it  not  for  an  accident  which  made  him 
forswear  the  histrionic  art.  In  playing  the  part 
of  Guyomar  in  Dryden's  Indian  Emperor,  by 
an  act  of  forgetfulness  he  wounded  a  brother 
tragedian  so  grievously  that  his  life  wa.s  only 
just  saved  after  great  anxiety. 

Having  now  no  further  business  in  Dublin, 
he  went  over  to  London,  where  he  renewed 


his  acquaintance  with  Wilks,  by  whom  he  was 
after  a  time  induced  to  write  his  first  comedy, 
Love  and  a  Bottle.  This  appeared  in  1698, 
and  being  full  of  sprightly  dialogue  and  busy 
scenes,  was  well  received.  In  1700,  the  year 
of  jubilee  at  Rome,  he  produced  his  Constant 
Couple;  or,  Trip  to  the  Jubilee,  in  which  Wilks 
made  a  great  hit  as  Sir  Haa-ry  Wildair.  To- 
wards the  end  of  the  year  he  visited  Holland, 
probably  in  fulfilment  of  the  duties  of  a  lieu- 
tenancy which  the  Earl  of  Orrery  obtained  for 
him.  Wliile  there  he  wrote  home  two  very 
facetious  letters  descriptive  of  what  he  had 
seen,  as  well  as  a  set  of  verses  on  the  same 
subject. 

In  1701,  on  his  return  to  England,  the  great 
success  of  Trip  to  the  Jubilee  caused  him  to 
write  a  continuation,  which  appeared  under 
the  title  of  Sir  Harry  Wildair;  or,  The  Sequel 
of  the  Trip  to  the  Jubilee.  In  this  Mrs.  Old- 
field  made  a  great  success,  while  Wilks  added 
to  his  reputation  as  the  Sir  Harry  Wildair  of 
married  life.  In  1702  he  published  his  Mis- 
cellanies; oi%  Collections  of  Poems,  Letters,  and 
Essays,  in  which  may  be  found  many  "  hum- 
orous and  pleasant  sallies  of  fancy;"  and  in 


GEORGE   FARQUHAR 


21 


1703  he  produced  IVie  Inconstant,  a  play  which  1 
has  ever  since  kept  the  stage,  and  which  was 
acted  only  the  other  day  in  London  with  great 
success.     The  play  was  not,  however,  at  first  | 
very  well  received,  owing,  it  is  said,  to  the 
sudden  springing  up  among  the  public  of  a 
taste  for  opera.     This  year  also  he  was  en- 
trapped into  marriage  by  a  female  adventurer, 
who  became  madly  enamoured  of  him.  Though  ; 
immediately  after  marriage  he  found  how  he 
had  been   deceived,  though  embarrassments  | 
closed  round  him,  and  though  a  family  quickly  i 
appeared  to  add  to  his  troubles,  he  never  once 
upV)raided  his  wife,  but  after  the  first  shock  of 
discovery  treated  her  with  kindness  and  affec- 
tion. 

Early  in  1704  he  produced,  with  the  assis- 
tance of  a  friend,  the  farce  called  The  Stage 
Coach,  which  was  well  received.  In  1705  his 
comedy  The  Twin  Rivals  appeared,  and  in 
1706  the  comedy  called  The  Recruiting  Ojffleer. 
His  last  work  was  The  Beaux'  Stratagem,  which 
he  did  not  live  to  see  produced,  and  which  is 
perhaps  the  best  of  all  his  works.  Oppressed 
with  debt,  he  applied  to  a  courtier  friend  for 
assistance;  but  the  creature  advised  him  to  sell 
his  commission,  and  pledged  his  honour  that 
in  a  short  time  he  would  find  him  another. 
Farquhar  followed  the  advice;  but  when  he 
applied  to  his  patron  to  help  him  to  a  new 
commission  the  worthy  declared  that  he  had 
forgotten  his  promise.  This  disappointment 
so  preyed  upon  his  mind  that  it  broke  him 
down  completely,  and  in  April,  1707,  while 
7'Ae  Beaux'  Stratagem  was  being  rehearsed  at 
Drury  Lane,  he  sank  into  his  last  sleep  in  the 
twenty-ninth  year  of  his  age.  After  his  death 
the  following  letter  to  Wilks  was  found  among 
his  papers: — "Dear  Bob,  I  have  not  anything 
to  leave  thee  to  perpetuate  my  memory  but 
two  helpless  girls;  look  upon  them  sometimes, 
and  think  of  him  that  was  to  the  last  moment 
of  his  life,  thine,  George  Farquhar."  It  is 
pleasant  to  know  that  Wilks  did  his  utmost 
for  the  widow  and  two  girls,  all  of  whom,  how- 
ever, fell  into  pitifid  circumstances  before 
their  death. 

Farquhar  is  far  more  natural  than  Congreve 
or  any  other  of  his  rivals;  "his  style  is  pure 
and  unaffected,  his  wit  natural  and  flowing, 
his  plots  generally  well  contrived."  His  works 
were  so  successful  in  book  form,  as  well  as  on 
the  stage,  that  within  fifty  years  of  his  death 
they  had  gone  through  more  than  eight  edi- 
tions. "The  character  of  Wildair  appeai-s  to 
me,"  says  Cowden  Clarke,  "one  of  the  most 
naturally  buoyant  pieces  of  delineation  that 


ever  was  written — buoyant  without  inanity; 
reckles.s,  wanton,  careless,  irrepressibly  viva- 
cious, and  outpouring,  without  being  ob- 
streperous and  oppressive,  and  all  the  while 
totally  free  from  a  tinge  of  vulgarity  in  the 
composition."  "  Farquhar's  gentlemen  ai-e 
Irish  gentlemen,"  he  continues,  "  frank,  gene- 
rous, eloquent,  witty,  and  with  a  cordial  word 
of  gallantry  always  at  command."  Hazlitt 
had  a  high  opinion  of  Farquhar,  who,  he  says, 
"  has  humour,  character,  and  invention  in  com- 
mon with  the  other  (Vanbrugh),  with  a  more 
unaffected  gaiety  and  spii-it  of  enjoyment 
which  sparkles  in  all  he  does.  .  .  .  His  in- 
cidents succeed  one  another  with  rapidity,  but 
without  premeditation ;  hLs  wit  is  easy  and 
spontaneous ;  his  style  animated,  unembar- 
rassed, and  flowing ;  his  characters  full  of  life 
and  spirit."  "  In  short,"  says  Cowden  Clarke, 
"he  was  a  delightful  writer,  and  one  to  whom 
I  should  sooner  recur  for  relaxation  and  enter- 
tainment— and  without  after  cloying  and  dis- 
gust— than  to  any  of  the  school  of  which  he 
may  be  said  to  be  the  last."] 


A  WOMAN   OF   QUALITY.! 

A  Lady's  Apartment.     Txco  Chambermaids 

enter. 

First  Cham.  Are  all  things  set  in  order? 
The  toilette  fixed,  the  bottles  and  combs  put 
in  form,  and  the  chocolate  ready? 

Second  Cham.  'Tis  no  gi-eat  matter  whether 
they  be  right  or  not ;  for  right  or  wrong  we 
shall  be  sure  of  our  lecture ;  I  wish,  for  my 
part,  that  my  time  were  out. 

First  Cham.  Nay,  'tis  a  hundred  to  one  but 
we  may  run  away  before  our  time  be  half  ex- 
pii-ed ;  and  she's  worse  this  morning  than  ever, 
— Here  she  comes. 

Lady  Lurewell  enters. 

Lure.  Ay,  there's  a  couple  of  you  indeed ! 
But  how,  how  in  the  name  of  negligence  could 
you  two  contrive  to  make  a  bed  as  mine  was 
last  night ;  a  wrinkle  on  one  side  and  a  rumple 
on  t'other;  the  pillows  awry  and  the  quilt 
askew! — I  did  nothing  but  tumble  about,  and 
fence  with  the  sheets  all  night  along. — Oh  I  my 
bones  ache  this  morning  as  if  I  had  lain  all 
night  on  a  pair  of  Dutch  staire — Go,  bring 


1  This  and  the  following  extract  are  from  The  Constant 
Couple  and  its  sequel  Sir  Harry  Wildair. 


22 


GEORGE   FAEQUHAE. 


chocolate. — And,  d'ye  hear  ?  Be  sure  to  stay 
an  hour  or  two  at  least — Well !  these  English 
aniraaLs  are  so  unpolished!  I  wish  the  f*er- 
secution  would  rage  a  little  harder,  that  we 
might  have  more  of  these  French  refugees 
among  tis. 

The  Maids  ^.nter  with  chocolate. 

These  wenches  are  gone  to  Smyrna  for  this 
chocolate.  —  And  what  made  you  stay  so 
long? 

Cham.  I  thought  we  did  not  stay  at  all, 
madam. 

Lure.  Only  an  hour  and  half  by  the  slowest 
clock  in  Christendom — And  such  salvers  and 
dishes  too  i  The  lard  be  merciful  to  me ! 
what  have  I  committed  to  be  plagued  with 
such  animals  ? — WTiere  are  my  new  japan  sal- 
vers ?— Broke,  o'rny  conscience  \  All  to  pieces, 
I'U  lay  my  life  on't. 

Cham.  Xo,  indeed,  madiim,  but  your  hus- 
band—  I 
iMre.     How  ?     husband,    impudence !     I'll  | 
teach  you   manners.      \Givei  her  a    box  on  \ 
the  ear.]      Husband!    Is    that   your   Welsh 
breeding?     Ha'n't  the  colonel  a  name  of  his 
own? 

Cham.  Well,  then,  the  colonel.  He  used 
them  this  morning,  and  we  ha'n't  got  them 
since. 

Lure.  How !  the  colonel  use  my  things ; 
How  dare  the  cr^lonel  use  anything  of  mine  ? 
— But  his  campaign  education  must  be  par- 
doned—And I  warrant  they  were  fisted  about 
among  his  dirty  levee  of  disbanded  officers  ?— 
Faugh !  The  very  thoughts  of  them  fellows 
with  their  eager  looks,  iron  swords,  tied-up 
wigs,  and  tucked-in  cravats,  make  me  sick  as 
death.— Come,  let  me  see.— [6'oe«  to  take  the 
chocolate.,  arul  ttarU  bacL]  Heavens  protect 
me  from  such  a  sight !  Lord,  girl !  when  did 
you  wash  your  hands  la.st?  And  have  you 
been  pawing  me  all  this  morning  with  them 
dirty  fists  of  yours?  [Runs  to  the  fflo^s.]—! 
must  dress  all  over  again— Go,  take  it  awav,  I 
shall  swoon  else.- Here,  Mrs.  Monster,  "call 
up  my  tailor;  and  d'ye  hear?  you,  Mrs. 
Hobbyhorse,  see  if  my  company  be  come  to 
cards  yet 

The  ToAlrn-  enters. 

Oh,  Mr.  Remnant !  I  don't  know  what  ails 
these  stays  you  have  made  me;  but  something 
is  the  matter,  I  don't  like  them. 

Rem.  I  am  very  sorry  for  that,  madam. 
But  what  fault  does  your  ladyship  find? 


Lure.  I  don't  know  where  the  fault  lies; 
but  in  shoi-t  I  don't  like  them;  I  can't  tell 
how ;  the  things  aie  well  enough  made,  but  I 
don't  like  them. 
Rem.  Are  they  too  wide,  madam  ? 
Lure.  No. 

Rem.  Too  strait,  perhaps? 
Lure.  Not  at  all!  they  fit  me  very  well; 
but — lard  bless  me,  can't  you  tell  where  the 
fault  lies? 

Rem.  Whj,  ti-uly,  madam,  I  can't  telL— 
But  your  ladyship,  I  think.  Is  a  little  too 
slender  for  the  fashion. 

Lure.  How!  too  slender  for  the  fashion, 
say  you  ? 

Rem.  Yes,  madam !  there's  no  such  thing  aa 
a  good  shape  worn  among  the  quality :  your 
fine  waists  are  clear  out,  madam. 

I/ure.  And  why  did  not  you  jjlump  up  my 
stays  to  the  fashionable  size  ? 

Rem.  I  made  them  to  fit  you,  madam. 
Lure.  Fit  me  !  fit  my  monkey — What!  d'ye 
think  I  wear  clothes  to  please  myself!  Fit 
me  !  fit  the  fashion,  pray;  no  matter  for  me — 
I  thought  something  was  the  matter,  I  wanted 
quality-air.— Pray,  Mr.  Remnant,  let  me  have 
a  bulk  of  quality,  a  spreading  counter.  I 
do  remember  now,  the  ladies  in  the  apart- 
ments, the  birth-night,  were  most  of  them 
two  yards  about  Indeed,  sir,  if  you  con- 
trive my  things  any  more  with  your  scanty 
chambermaid's  air,  you  sliall  work  no  more 
for  me. 

Rerri.  I  shall  take  care  to  please  your  Irtdy- 
ship  for  the  future.  [Exit. 

A  Servant  enters. 
Serv.  Aladam,  my  master  desires — 
Lure.  Hold,  hold,  fellow;  for  God's  sake 
hold :  if  thou  touch  my  clothes  with  that 
tobacco  breath  of  thine,  I  shall  poison  the 
whole  drawing-room.  Stind  at  the  door,  pray, 
and  speak. 

[Servant  goes  to  the  door  and  speaks. 
Serv.  My  master,  madam,  desires- - 
Lure.  Oh,  hideous  I    Now  the  ra.scal  bellows 
so  loud  that  he  tears  my  head  to  pieces.— - 
Here,  Awkwardness,  go  take  the  booby's  mes- 
sage and  bring  it  to  me. 

[Maid  goes  to  the  door,  whispers, 
and.  returns. 
Cham.  My  master  desires  to  know  how  your 
ladyship  rested    last   night,   and    if   you    are 
pleased  to  admit  of  a  visit  this  morning. 

Lure.  Ay — why,  this  is  civil. — "Tis  an  in- 
supportable toil  though  for  women  of  quality 
to  model  their  husbands  to  goo<-l  hrt^il'mrr. 


GEORGE  FARQUHAR. 


23 


A  GENTLEMANLY   CANING. 

Lady  Lurewell  solus. 
Enter  SiR  Harry  Wildair. 


I  well  beaten,  and  Sir  Harry  pestered,  next 

1  terui,  with   bloodsheds,   batteries,  costs  and 

damages,  solicitors  and  att<imeys.    And  if  they 

don't  tease  him  out  of  his  good  humour  I'll 

never  plot  again.  [£.vit. 


Sir  H.  "My  life,  my  soul,  my  all  that 
heaven  can  give  ! — 

Litdy  L.  "  Death's  life  with  thee;  wthout 
thee,  death  to  live." 

Still  brisk  and  aii-y,  I  find.  Sir  Harry. 

Sir  H.  The  sight  of  you,  madam,  exults  my 
ail-,  and  makes  joy  lighten  in  my  face. 

Lady  L.  Would  yo^i  marry  me.  Sir  Han-y  ? 

Sir  H.  Why,  mairiage  is  the  devil !— But  I 
will  marry  you. 

Lady  L.  Your  word,  sir,  is  not  to  be  relied 
on.  If  a  gentleman  will  forfeit  his  honour  in 
dealings  of  business,  we  may  reasonably  sus- 
pect his  fidelity  in  an  amour. 

Sir  H.  My  honour  in  dealings  of  business ! 
—Why,  madam,  I  never  had  any  business  all 
my  life. 

Lady  L.  Yes,  Sii-  Harry;  I  have  heaid  a 
very  odd  story,  and  am  sorry  that  a  gentle- 
man of  your  figxu-e  should  undergo  the  scandal. 

Sir  H.  Out  with  it,  madam. 

Lady  L.  Why,  the  merchant,  sir,  that  trans- 
mitted your  bills  of  exchange  to  you  in  France 
complains  of  some  indirect  and  dishonourable 
dealings. 

Sir  H.  Who— old  Smuggler?  j 

Lady  L.  Ay,  ay,  you  know  him.  I  find. 

Sir  H.  I  have  some  reason.  I  think.  Why, 
the  rogue  has  cheated  me  of  above  £500 
within  these  three  yeai-s. 

Lady  L.  'Tis  yoiu-  business,  then,  to  acquit 
yourself  publicly,  for  he  spreads  the  scandal 
everywhere. 

Sir  H.  Acquit  myseK  publicly!  Here,  sir- 
rah. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

My  coach;  I'll  drive  inswntly  into  the  city. 
and  cane  the  old  villain  round  the  Eoyal  Ex- 
change. 

L<idy  L.  "VMiy,  he  is  in  the  house  now.  sir. 

Sir  H.  What,  in  this  house  ? 

Lady  L.  Ay.  in  the  next  room. 

Sir  H.  Then,  sirrah,  lend  me  your  cudgel. 

[E.i'it  Servant. 

Lady  L.  Sir  Harry,  you  won't  raise  a  dis- 
turbance in  the  house ! 

Sir  H.  Disturbance,  madam  I     No.  no :  I'll 
beat  him  with  the  temper  of  a  philosopher. 
Here,  !Mrs.  Parley,  show  me  the  gentleman. 
[Exit  icith  Parley. 

Lady  L.  Now  shall  I  get  the  old  monster 


Another  Room  in  the  Same  House. 

Enter  Aldermax  Smuggler  and  Sir 
Harry  Wildair. 

Sir  //.  Dear  Mr.  Aldennan,  I'm  your  most 
devoted  and  humble  servant. 

Aid.  :My  best  friend,  Sii-  Hany,  you're  wel- 
come to  England. 

Sir  H.  I'll  assure  you,  sir,  there's  not  a  man 
in  the  king's  dominions  I  am  gladder  to  meet, 
dear,  dear  Mr.  Alderman. 

[Boicing  very  loic. 
Aid.  Oh !  lord,  sir,  you  travellei-s  have  the 
most  obliging  ways  with  you. 

Sir  H.  There  is  a  business,  Mr.  Alderman, 
fallen  out,  which  you  may  oblige  me  infin- 
itely by  — I  am  very  sorry  that  I  am  forced 
to  be  ti-otiblesome.  but  necessity,  Mr.  Alder- 
man— 

Aid.  Ay,  sir,  as  you  say,  necessity-- But 
upon  my  word,  sir.  I  am  very  short  of  money 
at  present;  but — 

Sir  H.  That's  not  the  matter,  six- ;  I'm  above 

an  obligation  that  way;  but  the  business  is, 

'  I'm  reduced  to  an  indispensable  necessity  of 

j  being  obliged  to  you  for  a  beating.     Here, 

take  this  cane. 

Aid.  A  beating.  Sir  Harry!  Ha,  ha,  ha! 
I  beat  a  knight  baronet !  An  alderman  tui-ned 
cudgel-player !     Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Sir  H.  Upon  my  word,  sir,  you  must  beat 
me.  or  I'll  beat  you ;  take  yoiu-  choice. 
,      J/(f.  Psha,  psha!     Y'ou  jest 
j      Sir  H.  Nay,  'tis  sure  as  fate  ;  so,  alderman, 
I  I  hope  vou'll  pai\ion  my  curiosity. 

{Strike-shim. 

Aid.  C\iriosity!     Deuce  take  your  cvuiosity, 

sir !     What  d'ye  mean  ? 

;      Sir  H.  Nothing  at  all.     I'm  but  in  jest,  sir. 

!      Aid.  Oh!    I   can   take   anything    in   jest; 

I  but  a  man  might  imagine,  by  the  smartness 

of  the  stroke,  that   you  were  in  downright 

1  earnest. 

\      Sir  H.  Not  in  the  least,  sir  {striJtes  him)— 
not  in  the  least,  indeed,  sir. 

Aid.  Prav,  good  sir,  no  more  of  your  jests; 
for  tliey  are  the  bluntest  je^ts  that  ever  I 
knew. 

Sir  H.  I  heartily  beg  your  pardon,  with  all 

my  he;u-t,  sir.  [Strikes  him. 

Aid.  Pardon,  sir !     Well,  sir,  that  is  satis- 


24 


GEORGE   FARQUHAR. 


faction  enough  from  a  gentleman.  But 
seriously,  now,  if  you  pass  any  more  of  your 
jests  upon  me  I  shall  grow  angry. 

Sh-  H.  I  humbly  beg  your  permission  to 
break  one  or  two  more.  [Strikes  him. 

A  Id.  Oh !  lord,  sir,  you'll  break  my  bones. 
Ai-e  you  mad,  sir?  Murder,  felony,  man- 
slaughter. [Falls  down. 

Sir  E.  Sir,  I  beg  you  ten  thousand  pardons, 
but  I  am  absolutely  compelled  to't,  upon  my 
honour,  sir.  Nothing  can  be  more  averse  to 
my  inclinations  than  to  jest  with  my  honest, 
dear,  loving,  obliging  friend  the  alderman. 

[Striking  him  all  this  while.  Alderman 
tumbles  over  and  over,  shakes  out  his 
pocket-book  on  the  floor. 

Enter  Lady  Lurewell,  and  takes  it  up. 

Lady  L.  The  old  rogue's  pocket-book;  this 
may  be  of  use.  {Aside.)  Oh !  lord.  Sir 
Harry's  murdering  the  poor  old  man. 

Aid.  Oh!  dear  madam,  I  was  beaten  in  jest 
till  I  am  murdered  in  good  earnest. 

Lady  L.  Well,  well,  I'll  bring  you  off, 
seigneur — frappez,  frappez ! 

Aid.  Oh!  for  charity's  sake,  madam,  i-escue 
a  poor  citizen. 

Lady  L.  Oh!  you  barbarous  man  !  Hold — 
hold !  frappez  plus  rudement.  Frappez !  T 
wonder  you  are  not  ashamed.  {Holding  Sir 
IT.)  A  poor  reverend  honest  elder.  {Helps 
Aid.  up.)  It  makes  me  weep  to  see  him  in 
this  condition,  poor  man !  Now,  deuce  take 
you.  Sir  Harry — for  not  beating  him  harder. 
WeU,  my  dear,  you  shall  come  at  night,  and 
I'll  make  you  amends. 

[Here  Sir  H.  takes  snuff. 

Aid.  Madam,  I  will  have  amends  before  I 
leave  the  place.  Sir,  how  durst  you  use  me 
thus? 

Sir  H.  Sir? 

Aid.  Sir,  I  say  that  I  will  have  satisfaction. 

Sir  H.  With  all  my  heart. 

[Throu's  snuff  in  his  eyes. 

Aid.  Oh !  murder,  blindness,  fire !  Oh ! 
madam — madam !  get  me  some  water — water 
— fire — water  ! 

[Exit  with  Lady  L. 

Sir  H.  How  pleasant  is  resenting  an  injury 
without  pa-ssion!     'Tis  the  beauty  of  revenge. 

Let  statesmen  plot,  and  under  business  groan, 
And  settling  public  quiet,  lose  their  own  ; 
I  make  the  most  of  life,  no  hour  mi.sspcnd, 
Pleasure's  the  mean,  and  pleasure  is  my  end. 
No  spleen,  no  trouble,  shall  my  time  destroy; 
Life's  but  a  span,  I'll  every  inch  enjoy. 

[Exit. 


THE   COUNTERFEIT   FOOTMAN. 

(from  "the  beaux'  stratagem.") 

Scrub,  a  Footman,  and  Archer,  a  Supposed 
Footman. 

Enter  Mrs.  Sullen  and  Dorinda. 

[They  walk  to  the  opposite  side.  Mrs. 
S.  drops  her  fan;  Archer  runs,  takes 
it  up,  and  gives  it  to  her. 

Arch.  Madam,  your  ladyship's  fan. 

Mrs.  S.  Oh,  sir,  I  thank  you.  What  a  hand- 
some bow  the  fellow  made  ! 

Dor.  Bow !  Why,  I  have  known  several 
footmen  come  down  from  London,  set  up  here 
as  dancing-masters,  and  carry  off  the  best  for- 
tunes in  the  country. 

Arch.  {Aside.)  That  project,  for  aught  I 
know,  had  been  better  than  ours.  Brother 
Scrub,  why  don't  you  introduce  me '? 

Scrub.  Ladies,  this  is  the  strange  gentle- 
man's servant,  that  you  saw  at  church  to-day ; 
I  understand  he  came  from  London,  and  so  I 
invited  him  to  the  cellar,  that  he  might  show 
me  the  newest  flourish  in  whetting  my  knives. 

Dor.  And  I  hope  you  have  made  much  of 
him. 

Arch.  Oh,  yes,  madam;  but  the  strength  of 
your  ladyship's  liquor  is  a  little  too  potent  for 
the  constitution  of  your  humble  servant. 

Mrs.  S.  What !  then  you  don't  usually  drink 
ale? 

Arch.  No,  madam ;  my  constant  drink  is 
tea,  or  a  little  wine  and  water :  'tis  pr-escribed 
me  by  the  physicians,  for  a  remedy  against  the 
spleen. 

Sd'ub.  Oh,  la !  Oh,  la !  A  footman  have 
the  spleen ! 

Mrs.  S.  I  thought  that  distemper  had  been 
only  proper  to  people  of  quality. 

Arch.  Madam,  like  all  other  fashions  it 
wears  out,  and  so  descends  to  their  servants ; 
though,  in  a  great  many  of  us,  I  believe,  it 
proceeds  from  some  melancholy  particles  in 
the  blood,  occasioned  by  tlie  stagnation  of 
wages. 

Dor.  How  affectedly  the  fellow  talks  !  How 
long,  pray,  have  you  served  your  present 
master? 

Arch.  Not  long;  my  life  has  been  mostly 
spent  in  the  service  of  the  ladies. 

Mrs.  S.  And,  pray,  which  service  do  you 
like  best? 

Arch.  Madam,  the  ladies  pay  best ;  the 
honour  of  serving  them  is  sufficient  wages; 
there  is  a  charm  in  their  looks  that  delivers  a 


A    GhiNTLHMANLY    CANING 


GEORGE   FARQUHAR. 


25 


pleasure  with  their  commands,  and  gives  our 
duty  the  wings  of  inclination. 

Mrs.  S.  That  tiiglit  w;i.s  above  the  pitch  of 
a  livery  :  and,  sir,  would  you  not  be  satisfied 
to  serve  a  lady  again? 

Arch.  As  groom  of  the  chamber,  madam, 
but  not  as  a  footman. 

Mrs.  S.  I  suppose  you  served  as  footman 
before  i 

Arch.  For  that  reason,  I  would  not  serve  in 
that  post  again ;  for  my  memory  is  too  weak  for 
the  load  of  messages  that  the  ladies  lay  upon 
their  servants  in  London.  My  Lady  Howd'ye, 
the  last  mistress  I  served,  called  me  up  one 
morning,  and  told  me,  "Martin,  go  to  my 
Lady  Allnight,  with  my  humble  service;  tell 
her  I  was  to  wait  on  her  ladyship  yesterday, 
aud  left  word  with  Mrs.  Rebecca,  that  the 
preliminaries  of  the  affair  she  knows  of  are 
stopped,  till  we  know  the  concurrence  of  the 
person  I  know  of,  for  which  there  are  circum- 
stances wanting,  which  we  shall  accommodate 
at  the  old  place ;  but  that,  in  the  meantime, 
there  is  a  pei-son  about  her  ladyship,  that, 
from  several  hints  and  surmises,  was  accessory 
at  a  certain  time  to  the  disappointment  that 
naturally  attend  things,  that  to  her  knowledge 
are  of  more  importance — 

Mrs.  >S.  and  Dor.  Ha,  ha !  Where  are  you 
going,  sir] 

Arch.  Wliy,  I  havVt  half  done. 

Scrub.  I  should  not  remember  a  quarter 
of  it. 

Arch.  The  whole  howd'ye  was  about  half 
an  hour  long;  I  hapj^ened  to  misplace  two 
syllables,  and  was  turned  off,  and  rendered 
incapable — 

Dor.  The  pleasantest  fellow,  sister,  I  ever 
saw.  But,  friend,  if  your  master  be  married, 
I  presume  you  still  serve  a  lady? 

Arch.  No,  madam ;  I  take  care  never  to 
come  into  a  married  family;  the  commands  of 
the  master  and  mistress  are  always  so  contrary 
that  'tis  impossible  to  please  both. 

Dor.  There's  a  main  point  gained.  My  lord 
is  not  married,  I  find. 

Mrs.  S.  But  I  wonder,  friend,  that  in  so 
many  good  services  you  had  not  a  better  jjro- 
vision  made  for  you. 

Arch.  I  don't  know  how,  madam ;  I  am 
very  well  as  I  am. 

Mrs.  S.  Something  for  a  pair  of  gloves. 

{^Offering  hhn  money. 

Arch.  I  humbly  beg  leave  to  be  excused. 
My  master,  madam,  pays  me ;  nor  dare  I  take 
money  from  any  other  hand  without  injuring 
his  honour  and  disobeying  his  commands. 


Scrub.  Brother  Martin  !  brother  Martin  ! 
Arch.  What  do  you  say,  brother  Scrub? 
Scrub.  Take  the  money  and  give  it  to  me. 
[^Exeunt  Archer  and  Scrub. 


FATHER    AND    SON. 
(from  "the  inconstant.") 

[Old  Mirabel,  guardian  of  Oriana,  to  whom 
his  son  young  Mirabel  w;is  engaged.  How- 
ever, three  years'  absence  changes  him,  and 
although  he  loves  Oriana  he  has  formed  a 
resolution  never  to  marry.  Dugard  is  brother 
to  Oriana,  and  Petit  her  page.] 

Enter  Old  and  Young  Mirabel,  meeting. 

Old  Mir.  Bob,  come  hither.  Bob. 

}'.  Mir.  Your  pleasure,  sir  ] 

Old  Mir.  Are  not  you  a  great  rogue,  sirrah  ? 

}'.  Mir.  That's  a  little  out  of  my  compre- 
hension, sir;  for  I've  heard  say  that  I  resemble 
my  father. 

Old  Mir.  Your  father  is  your  very  humble 
slave.  I  tell  thee  what,  child,  thou  art  a  very 
pretty  fellow,  and  I  love  thee  heartily;  and  a 
very  gi-eat  vdlain,  and  I  hate  thee  mortally. 

Y.  Mir.  Villain,  sir !  Then  I  must  be  a  very 
impudent  one;  for  I  can't  recollect  any  pas- 
sage of  my  life  that  I'm  ashamed  of. 

Old  Mir.  Come  hither,  my  dear  friend ;  dost 
see  this  picture?       [Shows  him  a  little  picture. 

Y.  Mir.  Oriana's  ?  Psha  ! 

Old  Mir.  Wliat,  sir,  won't  you  look  upon't  ? 
Bob,  dear  Bob,  pr'ythee  come  hither,  now. 
Dost  want  any  money,  child? 

Y.  Mir.  No,  sir. 

Old  Mir.  Why  then,  here's  some  for  thee : 
come  here  now.  How  canst  thou  be  so  hard- 
hearted an  unnatural,  unmannerly  rascal 
(don't  mistake  me,  child,  I  a'n't  angry),  as  to 
abuse  this  tender,  lovely,  good-natured,  dear 
rogue?  Why,  she  sighs  for  thee,  and  cries  for 
thee,  pouts  for  thee,  and  snubs  for  thee;  the 
j)oor  little  heart  of  it  is  like  to  burst.  Come, 
my  dear  boy,  be  good-natured,  like  your  own 
father;  be  now;  and  then,  see  here,  read  this; 
the  effigies  of  the  lovely  Oriana,  with  thirty 
thousand  poinids  to  her  portion  !  —  thirty 
thousand  pounds,  you  dog ! — thirty  thousand 
pounds,  you  rogue !  how  dare  you  refuse  a 
lady  with  thirty  thousand  pounds,  you  im- 
pudent rascal? 

Y.  Mir.  Will  you  hear  me  speak,  sir  ? 

Old  Mir.  Heai"  you  speak,  sir-  \     If  you  had 


26 


GEOEGE   FAEQUHAR 


thirty  thousand  tongues,  you  could  not  out- 
talk  thii'ty  thousand  pounds,  sir. 

Y.  Mir.  Nay,  sir,  if  you  won't  hear  me, 
I'll  begone,  sir:  I'll  take  post  for  Italy,  this 
moment. 

Old  Mir.  Ah,  the  fellow  knows  I  won't  part 
with  him !  Well,  sir,  what  have  you  to 
say? 

7.  Mir.  The  universal  recei)tion,  sir,  that 
marriage  has  had  in  the  world,  is  enough  to 
fix  it  for  a  public  good,  and  to  draw  every 
body  into  the  common  cause;  but  there  are 
some  constitutions,  like  some  instruments,  so 
peculiarly  singular,  that  they  make  tolerable 
music  by  themselves,  but  never  do  well  in  a 
concert. 

Old  Mir.  Why,  this  is  reason,  I  must  con- 
fess :  but  yet  it  is  nonsense,  too,  for  though 
you  should  reason  like  an  angel,  if  you  argue 
yourself  out  of  a  good  estate,  you  talk  like  a 
fool. 

J'.  Mir.  But,  sir,  if  you  bribe  me  into  bond- 
age with  the  riches  of  Croesus,  you  leave  me 
but  a  beggar,  for  want  of  my  liberty. 

Old  Mir.  Was  ever  such  a  perverse  fool 
heard?  'Sdeath,  sir!  why  did  I  give  you 
education?  was  it  to  dispute  me  out  of  my 
senses?  Of  what  colour,  now,  is  the  head  of 
this  canel  You'll  say,  'tis  white,  and,  ten  to 
one,  make  me  believe  it  too.  I  thought  that 
young  fellows  studied  to  get  money. 

Y.  Mir.  No,  sir,  I  have  studied  to  despise 
it;  my  reading  was  not  to  make  me  rich,  but 
happy,  sir. 

Old  Mir.  Lookye,  friend,  you  may  persuade 
me  out  of  my  designs,  but  I'll  command  you 
out  of  yours;  and  though  you  may  convince 
my  reason  that  you  are  in  the  right,  yet  there 
is  an  old  attendant  of  sixty-three,  called  Posi- 
tiveness,  which  you,  nor  all  the  wits  of  Italy, 
shall  ever  be  able  to  shake:  so,  sir,  you're  a 
wit,  and  I'm  a  father :  you  may  talk,  but  I'll 
be  obeyed. 

Y.  Mir.  This  it  is  to  have  the  son  a  finer 
gentleman  than  the  father;  they  first  give  us 
breeding,  tliat  they  don't  understand;  then 
they  turn  us  out  of  dooi-s,  because  we  are  wiser 
than  themselves.  But  I'm  a  little  beforehand 
with  the  old  gentleman.  (Aside.)  Sir,  you 
have  been  pleased  to  settle  a  thousand  pounds 
sterling  a  year  upon  me;  in  return  for  which, 
I  have  a  very  great  honour  for  you  and  your 
family,  and  shall  take  care  that  your  only  and 
beloved  son  shall  do  nothing  to  make  him 
hate  his  father,  or  to  hang  himself.  So,  dear 
sir,  I'm  your  very  humble  servant.    [Iiu7is  off. 

Old  Mir.  Here,  sirrah  !  rogue !  Bob  !  villain ! 


Enter  Dugard, 

Dug.  Ah,  sir !  'tis  but  what  he  deserves. 

Old  Mir.  'Tis  false,  sir !  he  don't  deserve  it: 
what  have  you  to  say  against  my  boy,  sir ! 

Dug.  I  shall  only  repeat  your  own  words. 

Old  Mir.  What  have  you  to  do  with  my 
words?  I  have  swallowed  my  words  already; 
I  have  eaten  them  up.  I  say,  that  Bob's  an 
honest  fellow,  and  who  dares  deny  it? 

Dug.  Come,  sir,  'tis  no  time  for  trifling:  my 
sister  is  abused;  you  are  made  sensible  of  the 
aftront,  and  your  honour  is  concerned  to  see 
her  redressed. 

Old  Mir.  Lookye,  Mr.  Dugard,  good  words 
go  farthest.  I  will  do  your  sister  justice,  but 
it  must  be  after  my  own  rate;  nobody  must 
abuse  my  sou  but  myself;  for,  although  Eobin 
be  a  sad  dog,  yet  he's  nobody's  puppy  but  my 
own. 

[Old  Mirabel  and  Oriana  cause  the  report 
to  be  circulated  that  she  is  about  to  be  married 
to  a  Spanish  nobleman,  with  a  view  to  stimu- 
late Young  Mirabel  by  jealousy.  Old  Mirabel 
personates  the  nobleman.] 

Young  Mirabel  solus. 

Enter  Old  Mirabel,  dressed  in  a  Spanish 
habit,  leading  Oriana. 

Oriana.  Good,  my  lord,  a  nobler  choice  had 
better  suited  your  lordship's  merit.  My  person, 
rank,  and  circumstance  expose  me  as  the 
pubUc  theme  of  raillery,  and  subject  me  so  to 
injurious  usage,  my  lord,  that  I  can  lay  no 
claim  to  any  part  of  your  regard,  except  your 
pity. 

Old  Mir.  Breathes  he  vital  air  that  dares 
presume, 
With   rude   behaviour,   to   profane  such  ex- 
cellence ? 
Show  me  the  man — 

And  you  shall  see  how  my  sudden  revenge 
Shall  fall  upon  the  head  of  such  presumption. 
Is  this  thing  one  ?         [Strutting  up  to  Y.  Mir. 

Y.  Mir.  Sii- ! 

Oriana.  Good,  my  lord, 

Old  Mir.  If  he,  or  any  he, 

Oriana.  Pray,  my  lord,  the  gentleman's  a 
stranger. 

Old  Mir.  O,  your  pardon,  sir,  but  if  you 
had — remember,  sir,  the  lady  now  is  mine,  her 
injuries  are  mine;  therefore,  sir,  you  under- 
stand me.— Come,  madam. 

[Leads  Oriana  to  the  door;  she  goes  off; 
Young  Mirabel  runs  to  his  father,  and 
pidls  him  by  the  sleeve. 


COUNT   HAMILTON. 


27 


Y.  Mir.  Ecoutez,  Monsieur  le  Count. 

Old  Mir.  Your  business,  sir? 

Y.  Mir.  Boh ! 

Old  Mir.  Boh  !  what  language  is  that,  sir? 

Y.  Mir.  Spanish,  my  loi'd. 

Old  Mir.  What  d'ye  mean? 

}'.  Mir.  This,  sir.  [Trips  up  his  heels. 

Old  Mir.  A  very  concise  quarrel,  truly — 
I'll  bully  him. — Trinidade  Seigneur,  give  me 
fair  play.  [Offering  to  rise. 

Y.  Mir.  By  all  mean.s,  sir.  {Takes  away 
his  sword.)  Now,  seigneur,  where's  that 
bombast  look,  and  fustian  face,  your  count- 
ship  wore  just  now?  [Strikes  him. 

Old  Mir.  The  rogue  quarrels  well,  very 
well ;  my  own  son  right !  But  hold,  sirrah, 
no  more  jesting;  I'm  your  father,  sir!  your 
father ! 

Y.  Mir.  My  father !  Then,  by  this  light,  I 
could  find  in  my  heart  to  pay  thee.  {Aside.) 
Is  the  fellow  mad?  Why,  sure,  sir,  I  ha'n't 
frighted  you  out  of  your  senses? 

Old  Mir.  But  you  have,  sir ! 

Y.  Mir.  Then  I'll  beat  them  into  you 
again.  [Offers  to  strike  him. 

Old  Mir.  Why,  rogue ! — Bob,  dear  Bob ! 
don't  you  know  me,  child? 

Y.  Mir.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  the  fellow's  down- 
right distracted!  Thou  miracle  of  impu- 
dence !  wouldst  thou  make  me  believe  that 
such  a  grave  gentleman  as  my  father  would 
go  a  masquerading  thus  ?  That  a  person  of 
three-score  and  three  would  run  about,  in  a 
fool's  coat,  to  disgrace  himself  and  family? 


why,  you  impudent  villain,  do  you  think  I 
will  suffer  such  an  affront  to  pass  upon  my 
honoured  father,  my  worthy  father,  my  dear 
father?  'Sdeath,  .sir !  mention  my  father  but 
once  again,  and  I'll  send  your  soul  to  thy 
^andfather  this  minute ! 

[Offering  to  stab  him. 

Old  Mir.  Well,  well,  I  am  not  your  father. 

Y.  Mir.  Why,  then,  sir,  you  are  the  saucy, 
hectoring  Spaniard,  and  I'll  use  you  accord- 
ingly- 

Enter  Dugard,  Oriana,  Maid,  and  Petit. 

[Dugard  runs  to  Young  Mirabel,  the  rest 
to  Old  Mirabel. 

Bug.  Fie,  fie,  Mirabel !  murder  your  father ! 

Y.  Mir.  My  father?  What,  is  the  whole 
family  mad  ?  Give  me  way,  sir ;  I  won't  be 
held. 

Old  Mir.  No,  nor  I  either ;  let  me  begone, 
pray.  [Offering  to  go. 

Y.  Mir.  My  father ! 

Old  Mir.  Ay,  you  dog's  face !  I  am  your 
father,  for  I  have  borne  as  much  for  thee  as 
your  mother  ever  did. 

Y.  Mir.  O  ho !  then  this  was  a  trick,  it 
seems,  a  design,  a  contrivance,  a  stratagem ! 
Oh,  how  my  bones  ache ! 

Old  Mir.  Your  bones,  sirrah !  why  yours  ? 

Y.  Mir.  Why,  sir,  ha'n't  I  been  beating 
my  own  fle.sh  and  blood  all  this  while?  O, 
madam.  {To  Oriana.)  I  wish  your  ladyship 
joy  of  your  new  dignity.  Here  was  a  con- 
trivance, indeed! 


COUNT    HAMILTON, 

Born  1646  — Died  1720. 


[Anthony,  Count  Hamilton,  descended  from 
a  younger  branch  of  the  dukes  of  Hamilton, 
was  born  at  Roscrea  in  1646.  His  parents 
were  Catholics  and  Royalists,  and  as  such 
found  it  wisest  to  leave  Ireland  and  take  up 
their  abode  in  France  on  the  death  of  Charles 
I.  in  1649.  In  France  the  future  count  re- 
sided for  many  years  with  his  parents,  and  it 
was  there  he  was  educated.  At  the  Restora- 
tion in  1660  he  was  brought  over  to  England, 
where  he  soon  grew  in  favour  with  the  court 
and  wits  of  the  day.  For  a  number  of  years 
he  divided  his  time  between  France  and 
England,  and  when  the  Revolution  occurred 
he  was  appointed  governor  of  Limerick  by 


James  II.  On  the  break-up  of  James's  party 
he  returned  once  more  to  France,  where  he 
passed  the  rest  of  his  life,  and  died  at  St. 
Germains  in  1720,  aged  seventy-four. 

The  works  of  Count  Hamilton  have  been 
frequently  published,  and  always  with  suc- 
cess. His  Memoirs  of  the  Count  de  Grammont 
is,  to  this  day,  eagerly  sought  after,  and  is, 
as  one  of  his  biographers  says,  "a  spirited 
production,  exhibiting  a  free,  and  in  the 
general  outline  a  faithful,  delineation  of  the 
voluptuous  court  of  Charles  II."  His  Fairy 
Tales  are  marked  by  great  elegance  of  style 
in  the  original  French  in  which  they  were 
written.     They  were  intended  as  a  "  piece  of 


28 


COUNT   HAMILTON. 


ridicule  on  the  passion  for  the  marvellous 
which  made  the  Arabian  Nights  so  eagerly 
read  at  their  first  appearance"  in  French. 
All  his  works  are  marked  by  fertility  of  ima- 
gination and  ready  movement.  "The  History 
of  Grammont",  says  Sir  Walter  Scott,  "may 
be  considered  as  an  unique ;  there  is  nothing 
like  it  in  any  language.  For  drollery,  know- 
ledge of  the  world,  various  satire,  general 
utility,  united  with  great  vivacity  of  com- 
position, Oil  Bias  is  unrivalled:  but  as  a 
merely  agreeable  book,  the  Memoirs  of  Gram- 
mont, perhaps,  deserves  that  character  more 
than  any  which  was  ever  written."] 


PORTRAIT   OF   GRAMMONT. 

For  j'our  past  sketch  how  beauties  tender 
Did  to  his  vows  in  crowds  surrender: 
Show  him  forth-following  the  banners 

Of  one  who  match'd  the  goddess  born: 
Show  how  in  peace  his  active  manners 

Held  dull  repose  in  hate  and  scorn: 
Show  how  at  court  he  made  a  figure, 
Taught  lessons  to  the  best  intriguer, 

Till,  without  fawning,  like  his  neighbours, 

His  prompt  address  foil'd  all  their  labours. 
Canvas  and  colours  change  once  more. 

And  paint  him  forth  in  various  light: 
The  scourge  of  coxcomb  and  of  bore; 
Live  record  of  lampoons  in  score, 

And  chronicle  of  love  and  fight; 
Redoubted  for  his  plots  so  rare, 
By  every  happy  swain  and  fair; 
Driver  of  rivals  to  despair; 

Sworn  enemy  to  all  long  speeches; 
Lively  and  brilliant,  frank  and  free; 
Author  of  many  a  repartee: 
Remember,  over  all,  that  he 

Was  most  renowned  for  storming  breaches.  .  . 
Tell  too  by  what  enchanting  art, 
Or  of  the  head,  or  of  the  heart, 

If  skill  or  courage  gain'd  his  aim; 
When  to  St.  Alban's  foul  disgrace. 
Despite  his  colleague's  grave  grimace, 
And  a  fair  nymph's  seducing  face, 

He  carried  off  gay  Buckingham.^ 


1  This  refers  to  Granunont's  share  in  carrying  Bucking- 
ham to  France  and  causing  him  to  determine  on  breaking 
the  Triple  Alliance. 

2  From  May  Flower,  a  Circassian  Tale,  second  edition 
in  Knglish,  Salirjbury,  1796.  The  occasion  of  Count 
Hamilton  writing  this  beautiful  Circassian  tale  is  thus 
related  in  the  introduction  to  the  book  :  "  The  conversa- 
tion happened  to  turn  in  a  company  in  which  he  was 
present  on  the  Arabian  Nights'  Enter tainmentii,  wliich 
were  just  published ;  every  one  highly  commended  the 
book ;  many  seemed  to  hint  at  the  difficulty  of  writing 


Speak  all  these  feats,  and  simply  speak, — 
To  soar  too  high  were  forward  freak, — 

To  keep  Parnassus'  skirts  discreetest; 
For  'tis  not  on  the  very  peak 

That  middling  voices  sound  the  sweetest. 
Each  tale  in  easy  language  dress, 

With  natural  expression  closing; 
Let  every  rhyme  fall  in  express; 
Avoid  poetical  excess, 

And  shun  low  miserable  prosing: 
Doat  not  on  modish  style,  I  pray, 

Nor  yet  condemn  it  with  rude  passion: 
There  is  a  place  near  the  Marais, 
Where  mimicry  of  antique  lay 

Seems  to  be  creeping  into  fashion. 
This  new  and  much  admired  way. 

Of  using  Gothic  words  and  spelling, 
Costs  but  the  price  of  Rabelais, 

Or  Ronsard's  sonnets,  to  excel  in. 
With  half  a  dozen  ekes  and  ayes. 
Or  some  such  antiquated  phrase, 
At  small  expense  you  lightly  hit 
On  this  new  strain  of  ancient  wit. 

Still  may  his  wit's  unceasing  charms 

Blaze  forth,  his  numerous  days  adorning; 
May  he  renounce  the  din  of  arms, 

And  sleep  some  longer  of  a  morning: 
Still  be  it  upon  false  alarms, 

That  chaplains  come  to  lecture  o'er  him; 
Still  prematurely,  as  before. 
That  all  the  doctors  give  him  o'er, 

And  king  and  court  are  weeping  for  him. 
May  such  repeated  feats  convince 

The  king  he  lives  but  to  attend  him; 
And  may  he,  like  a  grateful  prince. 

Avail  him  of  the  hint  they  lend  him; 
Live  long  as  Grammont's  age,  and  longer. 
Then  learn  his  art  still  to  grow  younger. 


FIDDLESTICK." 

About  seven  thousand  three  hundred  and 
fifty-three  miles  from  hence  there  is  a  certain 
beautiful  country  called  Cashmeer,  which  was 
governed  by  a  caliph.  This  caliph  had  a 
daughter,  and  that  daughter  a  face;  but  it 
would  have  been  better  for  many  if  she  had 


that  species  of  composition.  'Nothing  can  be  more 
easy,'  replied  Count  Hamilton,  'and  as  a  proof  of  it  I 
will  venture  to  write  a  Circassian  tale  .after  the  manner 
of  the  Arabian  Nights'  Entertainment  on  any  subject 
which  you  can  mention.'  'Fiddlestick!'  [Tarare!]  re- 
plied the  other.  '  You  have  hit  it,'  said  Count  Hamilton; 
'and  I  promise  you  that  I  shall  produce  a  tale  in  which 
Fiddlestick  shall  be  the  principal  hero.'  In  a  few  days 
he  finished  this  tale,  which  he  called  '  Fleur  d'^pine.'  It 
was  much  read  and  admired  in  Paris.' 


COUNT   HAMILTON. 


29 


been  born  without  one.  For  her  beauty, 
tolerable  to  the  fifteenth  year  of  her  age,  be- 
came insupportable  at  that  period.  I  .shall 
not  pretend  to  describe  the  most  beautiful 
mouth  that  Wiis  ever  seen,  the  whitest  teeth, 
a  nose  which  was  neither  too  long  nor  too 
short ;  the  liveliness  of  her  complexion,  in  com- 
parison with  which  the  lilies  of  Ctishmeer, 
which  are  a  thousand  times  whiter  than  ours, 
appeared  dirty,  and  the  carnation  of  her 
cheeks,  which  shamed  the  damask-rose.  But 
all  these  charms  were  nothing  in  comparison 
with  her  eyes,  which  shone  with  such  astonish- 
ing brightness,  that  from  the  eighth  year  of 
her  age,  her  father,  who  was  a  truly  economical 
prince,  used  to  extinguish  all  the  candles  at 
midnight  throughout  his  palace,  and  the  light 
from  her  eyes  was  so  great,  that  all  the  cour- 
tiers (and  courtiers  always  speak  truth)  de- 
clared they  could  see  as  well  as  at  midday. 
No  one  could  ever  distinguish  their  colour; 
for  as  soon  as  any  one  ventured  to  take  a  peep 
at  them  he  was  immediately  sti-uck  as  with  a 
fliush  of  lightning ;  and  from  this  circumstance 
she  was  called  the  Brilliant. 

The  misfortune  was  that  the  finest  young 
men  of  the  court  perished  continually ;  and  a 
day  did  not  pass  that  two  or  three  of  those 
fops,  who  affected  to  ogle  whenever  they  met 
with  a  pretty  pair  of  eyes,  and  who  had  hitherto 
escaped  unhurt,  could  not  avoid  the  general  con- 
flagration. Such,  indeed,  was  the  effect  of  the 
operation  that  the  flame  passed  rapidly  from 
the  eyes  to  the  heart  of  those  men  who  looked 
at  her;  and  in  less  than  four-and-twenty  hours 
they  died,  continually  pronouncing  tenderly 
her  name,  and  humbly  thanking  her  beautiful 
eyes  for  the  honour  of  sending  them  to  the 
grave. 

The  fair  sex,  however,  suffered  differently. 
Those  who  saw  her  at  a  distance  were  dazzled 
to  such  a  degree  as  to  become  near-sighted; 
but  those  who  waited  on  her  person  purchased 
their  honour  at  a  dear  rate :  the  lady  of  the 
bed-chamber,  four  maids  of  honour,  and  an 
old  mistress  of  the  robes,  became  absolutely 
blind. 

The  grandees  of  the  kingdom,  who  saw 
their  families  daily  extinguished  by  the  fatal 
conflagration  of  her  eyes,  humbly  petitioned 
the  caliph  to  find  out  some  remedy  for  a  dis- 
order which  deprived  their  sons  of  their  lives 
and  their  daughters  of  their  sight. 

Accordingly,  the  caliph  summoned  his 
council  of  state  to  deliberate  on  what  was  to 
be  done.  His  minister  presided,  and  this 
minister  was  the  silliest  president  alive. 


The  council  was  divided  in  opinion.  One 
party  proposed  to  put  Brilliant  into  a  convent; 
supposing  that  there  could  be  no  harm  if  a 
dozen  or  two  old  nuns,  with  their  abbess, 
should  become  blind  for  the  good  of  the  state. 
A  second  party  proposed  to  sew  her  eyelids 
together;  and  a  third  offered  to  take  out  her 
eyes  with  such  address  that  she  should  feel  no 
pain,  keep  them  in  a  silver  box  till  the  fatal 
fire  was  somewhat  extinguished,  and  then 
replace  them  in  their  sockets  as  if  they  had 
never  been  taken  out. 

The  caliph,  who  tendeily  loved  his  daughter, 
objected  to  all  these  proposals,  and  the  prime 
minister,  who  penetrated  his  royal  nuister's 
sentimezits,  got  up  to  speak.  The  good  man 
had  cried  bitterly  for  above  an  hour,  and  he 
began  his  harangue  even  without  wiping  his 
eyes. 

"  I  have  been  lamenting,"  he  said,  "  the 
death  of  the  count,  my  son,  knight  of  the 
sword,  which  honour,  however,  could  not  pre- 
serve him  from  the  fatal  looks  of  the  princess. 
He  was  yesterday  buried :  so  no  more  of  him. 
We  are  now  met  for  the  service  of  your 
majesty,  and  I  must  forget  that  I  am  a  father, 
to  remember  only  that  I  am  a  minister. 

"  My  grief  has  not  prevented  me  from  lis- 
tening to  the  several  opinions :  and  with  great 
respect  to  the  company,  I  do  not  approve  any 
which  have  been  given.  Mine  is  as  follows : 
I  have  a  squire  in  my  service :  I  do  not  know 
whence  he  comes,  or  what  he  is;  further,  I 
know,  that  since  he  has  been  in  my  service  I 
no  longer  trouble  myself  about  the  affairs  of 
my  household.  He  is  like  a  spirit  who  knows 
everything,  and  although  I  have  the  honour  of 
being  your  majesty's  first  minister,  yet  I  am  a 
mere  ignoramus  in  comjiarison  with  him.  My 
wife  tells  me  so  every  day.  Now,  if  your  ma- 
jesty should  find  it  good  to  consult  him  upon 
an  affair  of  such  difficulty,  I  am  persuaded 
your  majesty  would  be  satisfied." 

"Willingly,  good  Mr.  Minister,"  returned 
the  caliph ;  "  and  more  particularly  as  I  shall 
be  very  glad  to  see  a  man  who  has  more  wis- 
dom and  understanding  than  yourself." 

On  being  sent  for  the  squire  refused  to  come, 
unless  the  eyes  of  the  princess  were  closed. 

"  Sire,"  said  the  minister,  "  did  I  not  tell 
you  so ! " 

"Oh,  ho!"  replied  the  caliph,  "I  see  he  is 
not  deficient  in  understanding ;  bring  him 
here;  he  shall  not  see  my  daughter's  eyes." 
He  soon  came,  and  though  neither  well  nor 
ill  made  he  had  something  agreeable  in  hia 
air  and  striking  in  his  physiognomy. 


30 


COUNT   HAMILTON. 


"  Speak  boldly  to  him,  sire,"  said  the  min- 
ister, "  he  understands  all  languages." 

The  caliph,  who  only  understood  his  own 
tongue,  and  that  not  very  well,  after  meditat- 
ing a  long  time  in  order  to  find  out  an  in- 
genious question,  said  to  him — 

"  My  friend,  what  is  your  name?" 

"  Fiddlestick,"  replied  he. 

"  Fiddlestick  !"  returned  the  caliph. 

"  Fiddlestick!"  exclaimed  the  minister. 

"  I  ask  you,"  resumed  the  caliph,  "  what  is 
your  name  ? " 

"  I  understand  you,  sire." 

"Well,  then,"  said  the  caliph,  "what  is 
it?" 

"  Fiddlestick,"  replied  the  other,  making  at 
the  same  time  a  low  bow. 

"And  why  are  you  called  Fiddlestick?" 

"  Because  it  is  my  name." 

"And  how  so?" 

"Because  I  quitted  my  real  name  to  take 
this;  so  I  am  called  Fiddlestick,  although  it  is 
not  my  real  name." 

"  Nothing  is  plainer,"  returned  the  caliph ; 
"and  yet  I  should  never  have  found  it  out  in 
a  month." 

"Well    then,   Mr.    Fiddlestick,   what 

shall  we  do  with  my  daughter?" 

"  What  you  please,  sire." 

"But  I  say,  what  shall  we  do  with  my 
daughter?" 

"What  you  please,"  again  replied  Fiddle- 
stick. 

"  To  cut  the  matter  short,"  said  the  caliph, 
"my  minister  advised  me  to  consult  you  in 
regai'd  to  her  misfortune  in  killing  or  striking 
blind  those  who  look  at  her." 

"The  gods  are  to  blame,  sire,"  Fiddlestick  cries, 
"  Who  made  her  so  handsome,  and  not  her  bright 
eyes. 

But  if  it  is  a  misfortune  to  have  such  beau- 
tiful eyes,  hear  what  is  to  be  done,  according 
to  my  humble  opinion.  The  fairy  Serena 
knows  all  the  secrets  of  nature;  send  her  a 
trifling  present  of  a  hundred  or  two  hundred 
thousand  rupees,  and  if  she  does  not  find  a 
remedy  for  the  eyes  of  the  princess  you  may 
be  fully  persuaded  that  her  disorder  is  incur- 
able ;  and  in  order  to  prevent  all  excuses  or 
delays,  I  will  myself  undertake  to  consult 
Serena  on  your  part,  as  I  am  well  acquainted 
with  her  habitation." 

The  caliph  approved  the  proposal,  and 
ordered  a  purse  of  the  most  brilliant  diamonds, 
and  half  a  bushel  of  the  largest  pearls,  as  a 
present  for  the  fairy ;  and  our  adventurer  set 


out  on  the  expedition,  notwithstanding  the 
opposition  and  regret  of  the  minister's  wife. 

During  his  absence  on  this  expedition,  which 
lasted  a  month,  the  eyes  of  Brilliant  did  more 
execution  than  ever;  and  the  caliph  ordered 
public  prayers  and  processions  to  incline  Heaven 
to  look  with  an  eye  of  pity  on  his  distressed 
subjects,  and  to  prevent  her  fixing  her  eyes  on 
him.  In  the  midst  of  these  distresses  and 
ceremonies  Fiddlestick  returned,  and  repairing 
to  the  caliph,  who  was  in  the  act  of  consulting 
his  privy-council,  thus  addressed  him  :  "  Sire, 
the  fairy  Serena  presents  her  compliments, 
thanks  you  for  your  present,  but  declines  ac- 
cepting it.  She  says  that  she  is  able  to  render 
the  eyes  of  the  princess  as  harmless  as  those 
of  your  majesty,  without  diminishing  their 
lustre,  provided  you  will  supply  her  with  four 
things." 

" Four ! "  returned  the  caliph ;  "four  hundred 
if  she  pleases." 

"  Softly  if  you  please,"  replied  Fiddlestick ; 
"  the  first  of  these  is  the  portrait  of  Brilliant ; 
the  second.  May  Flower;  the  third,  the  Lumi- 
nous Hat;  and  the  fourth,  the  mare  Sonora." 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this?"  inter- 
rupted the  caliph. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  sire,"  returned  Fiddle- 
stick. "Serena  has  a  rival  whose  name  is 
Mother  Long  Tooth ;  she  is  almost  as  powerful 
as  herself,  but  as  she  employs  her  art  in  doing 
harm,  she  is  only  a  witch,  while  Serena  is  an 
honest  fairy.  Now  this  old  hag  contrived  to 
carry  away  the  daughter  of  Serena,  and  is  now 
endeavouring  by  most  cniel  usages  to  force 
her  to  marry  her  son,  who  is  a  little  monster. 
This  supposed  daughter  of  Sei-ena  is  called  May 
Flower.  The  old  hag  has  also  in  her  possession 
a  hat  all  covered  with  diamonds,  and  those 
diamonds  are  so  sparkling  that  they  rival  the 
sun,  and  are  only  inferior  to  the  lustre  of  Bril- 
liant's eyes;  this  is  the  Luminous  Hat.  Beside 
these  things  she  has  a  mare,  each  hair  of  which 
is  provided  with  a  golden  bell,  so  harmonious 
that  it  is  a  concert  of  itself;  and  whenever 
this  animal  stirs  the  united  sound  of  all  the 
bells  forms  a  melody  louder  and  more  ravish- 
ing than  the  harmony  of  the  spheres. 

"  These  are  the  four  things  which  Serena 
requires,  and  as  a  comfort,  she  added,  that  it 
is  next  to  impossible  for  any  one  who  endea- 
vours to  carry  off  May  Flower,  the  Luminous 
Hat,  and  Sonora,  not  to  avoid  falling  into 
the  hands  of  the  old  hag;  and  if  that  should 
haj)pen  not  all  the  powers  of  earth  can  again 
deliver  him  from  her  clutches." 

The  consideration  of  these  hard  terms  affected 


COUNT  HAMILTON. 


31 


the  calipli  and  his  privy-councillors  to  such  a 
degree  that  they  burst  into  tears.  Fiddlestick, 
affected  at  their  sorrow,  said  to  the  caliph, 
"  Sire,  I  know  a  man  who  will  undertake  to 
execute  the  first  commission." 

"  How  !"  returned  the  caliph,  "  to  draw  the 
portrait  of  my  daughter !  and  who  is  there 
sufficiently  out  of  his  senses  to  attempt  what 
is  impossible?" 

"  Fiddlestick,"  replied  the  other;  "Fiddle- 
stick!" returned  the  caliph;  "Fiddlestick!" 
repeated  the  minister  and  all  the  privy-coun- 
cillors; "Fiddlestick!"  echoed  the  courtiers 
who  were  waiting  in  the  drawing-room  till  the 
caliph  made  his  appearance ;  and  "  Fiddle- 
stick ! "  re-echoed  the  servants  who  were  stand- 
ing in  the  court-yard  of  the  palace,  and  the 
boys  who  were  playing  in  the  streets. 

"  Sire,"  said  the  minister,  "  he  will  succeed 
if  he  undertakes  it." 

"  And  if  he  does,"  replied  the  caliph,  "  who 
will  undertake  the  I'est?" 

"  Fiddlestick,"  answered  the  other ;  "  Fiddle- 
stick ! "  said  the  caliph ;  "  Fiddlestick ! "  re- 
peated the  minister  and  all  the  privy-council- 
lors; "  Fiddlestick  !"  echoed  the  courtiers  who 
■were  waiting  in  the  drawing-room  till  the 
caliph  made  his  appearance ;  and  "  Fiddle- 
stick ! "  re-echoed  the  servants  who  were  stand- 
ing in  the  coiirt-yard  of  the  palace,  and  the 
boys  who  were  playing  in  the  streets. 

"Sire,"  said  Fiddlestick  impatiently,  "I 
cannot  engage  in  this  attempt,  but  under  two 
conditions ;  the  first,  that  when  my  name  is 
mentioned,  it  may  not  be  bandied  about  from 
one  to  the  other  like  so  many  echoes ;  and  the 
second,  that  when  the  princess  is  restored  to 
the  state  which  you  desire,  she  may  be  per- 
mitted to  choose  her  own  husband." 

The  caliph  solemnly  promised  ;  and  the  min- 
ister, who  loved  business,  issued  letters  patent 
under  the  great  seal,  granting  to  Fiddlestick 
the  sole  monopoly  of  painting  the  portrait  of 
the  Princess  Brilliant,  and  of  being  called 
Fiddlestick  without  any  one's  presuming  to 
repeat  the  name  whenever  it  was  mentioned. 

This  important  business  being  finished,  the 
caliph  and  the  whole  court  were  employed 
in  making  conjectures  by  what  means  he 
would  paint  a  countenance  which  no  one  could 
look  at  without  instant  blindness  or  death; 
but  he  soon  convinced  them  that  it  was  not 
impossible. 

Having  travelled  much,  and  being  accus- 
tomed to  make  a  journal  of  his  tour,  he  found 
in  his  notes,  that  in  those  countries  where 
eclipses  are  common  the  natives  were  accus- 


tomed to  look  at  the  sun  through  a  glass 
tinged  with  a  dark  colour. 

He  immediately  contrived  to  make  a  jtair 
of  spectacles  with  gla-sses  of  a  dark  gi-een 
colour;  and  having  tried  their  effect  against 
the  sun  at  midday,  he  repaired  to  the  apart- 
ments of  Brilliant  with  the  proper  apparatus 
for  taking  her  portrait. 

This  proceeding  surprised  her,  and  to  punish 
his  rashness  she  opened  her  eyes  as  much  as 
she  could,  but  all  she  did  was  in  vain,  for  the 
painter,  after  he  had  sufficiently  and  minutely 
examined,  under  cover  of  his  spectacles,  the 
features  of  her  countenance,  began  the  por- 
trait. 

Although  he  was  not  a  painter  by  profes- 
sion, yet  no  one  surp;\ssed  him  in  the  art.  He 
had  an  exquisite  taste  in  all  the  branches  of 
design,  composition,  and  colouring,  and  was 
an  admirable  judge  of  beauty.  The  beauty  of 
the  princess  did  not  at  first  make  upon  his 
heart  that  impression  which  might  have  been 
expected.  But  by  degrees  his  insensibility 
wore  off,  he  became  smitten  with  her  chanus, 
and  endeavoured  to  render  himself  agi-eeable 
by  the  power  of  his  wit  and  understanding, 
which  he  possessed  in  so  high  a  degree.  The 
princess  was  not  insensible  to  the  praises 
which  he  bestowed  on  her  beauty,  and  lis- 
tened with  the  greatest  attention  to  the  agree- 
able account  of  his  travels,  which  he  related 
under  the  pretext  of  amusing  her  while  she 
was  sitting  for  her  picture.  She  was  so  de- 
lighted with  his  lively  sallies  and  amusing 
conversation,  that  she  would  often  prolong 
the  time  in  which  she  was  to  sit,  always  ex- 
pressed her  regret  when  he  left  her,  quite 
forgot  that  his  person  was  not  as  beautiful  as 
his  mind,  and  at  length  became  passionately 
in  love  with  him. 

The  portrait  was  no  sooner  finished  than  it 
became  the  admiration  of  the  whole  court;  all 
the  courtiers  to  a  man  declared  that  they  could 
scarcely  bear  to  look  at  the  eyes  of  the  jjic- 
ture,  and  affected  to  borrow  spectacles  for  that 
purpose. 

Meanwhile  the  princess  became  pensive  and 
melancholy,  and  hei'  uneasiness  increased  as 
the  time  approached  when  Fiddlestick  was 
about  to  depart  in  jmrsuit  of  so  dangerous  an 
adventure. 

On  taking  leave  she  assured  him  "that  in 
exposing  himself  for  her  sake  he  was  going  to 
labour  for  himself;  for  if  he  succeeded  she  was 
permitted  to  choose  her  own  husband,  and  she 
need  not  tell  him  who  that  should  be ;  and  if 


32 


COUNT  HAMILTON. 


he  did  not  succeed,  she  should  then  remain 
single." 

It  must  be  confessed,  that  this  declaxation 
was  plain  and  open;  but  in  those  days  when- 
ever a  beautiful  lady  felt  any  symptoms  of 
tenderness  she  was  eager  to  disclose  them,  and 
princesses  were  not  more  squeamish  than  other 
women.  Nor  was  Fiddlestick  shocked  at  this 
eagerness;  he  flung  himself  twenty  times  at 
her  feet,  to  exjaress  transports  which  he  did 
not  feel,  for  he  was  astonished  at  finding  that 
his  heart  did  not  beat  time  with  his  mouth, 
and  that  he  did  not  love  as  much  as  he  pro- 
fessed. 

[After  wonderful  adventures.  Fiddlestick, 
aided  by  the  fairy  Serena,  conquered  old 
Mother  Long  Tooth,  and  released  May  Flower; 
at  the  same  time  he  managed  cleverly  to  fill 
the  bells  with  something  to  hinder  their  sound- 
ing, so  that  the  mare  called  Sonora  went  ofi" 
with  him  quietly.  The  diamond  hat  also  is 
secured.  May  Flower,  in  gratitude  for  her  re- 
lease, fell  in  love  with  him,  and  he  reciprocated 
the  feeling.  However,  he  returned  to  court 
accompanied  by  May  Flower,  and  this  is  how 
matters  pi-oceed.] 

He  carried  in  his  hand  a  phial  made  of  a 
single  diamond,  containing  a  transparent 
liquor  of  such  splendour,  that  the  eyes  of 
Brilliant  herself  were  dazzled  and  closed  of 
themselves. 

Fiddlestick  took  that  opportunity  of  mois- 
tening her  temples  and  eyelids;  having  ordered 
the  doors  to  be  thrown  open,  the  jjeople  en- 
tered in  crowds  and  were  witnesses  to  the 
immediate  efi"ect  of  the  hquor;  her  eyes  were 
no  less  brilliant  than  before,  but  so  little 
dangerous,  that  an  infant  of  a  year  old  could 
ogle  her  during  a  whole  day  without  danger. 

Fiddlestick  having  respectfully  kissed  the 
train  of  her  robe  retired  from  her  presence, 
and  although  the  first  emotion  of  his  heart 
would  have  carried  him  to  the  charming  May 
Flower,  yet  the  report  of  the  miracle  he  had 
just  performed  was  so  quickly  diffused,  that  he 
was  hurried  involuntarily  into  the  presence  of 
the  caliph. 

That  good  prince  was  almost  transported 
with  joy  when  he  heard  that  the  eyes  of  his 
daughter,  though  as  bright  as  ever,  were  no 
longer  dangerous  to  behold,  and  when  Fiddle- 
stick had  restored  him  to  his  sight  he  did  not 
appear  so  much  delighted  with  seeing  the  light 
of  the  sun,  as  grateful  to  him  who  had  been 
the  means  of  opening  his  eyes. 

He  expressed  a  resolution  of  leading  him 


to  his  daughter,  that  she  might  choose  him  for 
her  husband,  adding  that  the  marriage  should 
instantly  take  place,  and  protested  to  his 
council  that  he  should  never  be  completely 
happy  till  he  saw  his  palace  full  of  little 
Fiddlesticks. 

The  members  of  the  council  were  upon  the 
point  of  repeating  "  Fiddlesticks !  "  but  fortun- 
ately in  time  recollected  the  letters  patent 
which  declared  all  those  who  repeated  that 
word  guilty  of  high  treason,  and  were  silent. 

[While  the  eyes  of  the  Princess  Brilliant 
were  being  cured  it  was  found  that  a  beloved 
parrot  belonging  to  her  had  taken  flight;  all 
other  considerations  were  for  the  time  for- 
gotten in  this  dreadful  calamity,  and  the 
princess  was  almost  distracted.  In  the  midst 
of  the  confusion  the  parrot  returned.  The 
fairy  Serena  appeared  and  instantly  restored 
him  to  his  former  shape,  that  of  a  handsome 
young  prince  named  Phoenix.  The  Princess 
Brilliant  at  once  fell  in  love  with  him,  and 
he  with  her.  All  this  was  perplexing  to  the 
caliph,  who  had  intended  his  daughter  for 
Fiddlestick.  The  fairy  Serena  proposed  to 
tell  her  story  and  set  matters  right,  and  after 
desci'ibing  her  fathei-,  who  for  love  of  science 
resigned  a  crown,  and  ultimately  succeeded  in 
discovering  the  philosopher's  stone, — the  mar- 
riage of  her  sister  to  a  Circassian  prince, — the 
death  of  her  mother,  and  subsequently  of  her 
father,  who  bequeathed  to  her  all  his  magic 
powers,  —  and  her  discovery  by  this  means 
that  the  eldest  daughter  of  her  sister  is 
menaced  with  great  danger, — she  goes  on  to 
relate  how  she  found  the  secret  foe : — ] 

"I  had  immediately  recourse  to  my  wand, 
and  having  drawn  the  extremity  over  a  skin  of 
parchment  it  traced  of  its  own  accord  the 
horrible  figure  of  Mother  Long  Tooth,  the 
situation  of  her  abode,  her  enchantments  and 
inclinations.  I  was  shocked  at  finding  that 
the  most  horrible  of  all  creatures  had  a  gi-eater 
propensity  to  love  than  to  vengeance  and 
cruelty ;  that  she  employed  her  art  in  di-awing 
men  into  her  snares.  I  had  also  the  regi'et  of 
discovering  that  neither  my  power  nor  my  art 
could  avail  against  hers  as  long  as  she  pos- 
sessed Sonora  and  the  Luminous  Hat. 

"  I  learned,  moreover,  by  means  of  my  wand 
that  she  had  an  only  son  nearly  of  the  same 
age  of  May  Flower,  and  I  was  convinced  that 
her  aim  was  to  carry  off  the  heiress  of  Circas- 
sia  and  give  her  to  Master  Long  Tooth.  For 
this  reason  I  proposed  to  take  her  under  my 
protection,  and  my  sister  sent  her  to  me 
secretly.     But  that  precaution  was  of  no  ser- 


COUNT  HAMILTON. 


33 


vice,  for  the  old  hag  contrived  to  carry  her  off 
almost  in  my  presence,  at  the  very  moment 
when  she  was  about  to  be  delivered  to  me.  I 
in  vain  passed  her  off  as  my  daughter;  the 
cruel  Mother  Long  Tooth  was  not  to  be  de- 
ceived, and  all  my  arts  were  ineffectual  in 
defending  my  poor  little  May  Flower  from  the 
clutches  of  the  inhuman  sorceress.  Yes,  Cdiph 
of  Cashmeer,that  same  May  Flower  whom  you 
now  see  is  heiress  of  Circiissia. 

"  May  Flower  was  thus  torn  from  me,  and 
neither  my  art  nor  the  powers  of  this  world 
could  have  delivered  her  from  the  fangs  of 
the  sorceress  if  Fiddlestick  had  not  under- 
taken the  enterprise.  That  glory  was  reserved 
to  the  most  ingenious  as  well  as  the  most 
faithful  of  lovers.  I  well  knew  that  these  two 
qualities  were  necessary  to  him  who  should 
can-y  off"  Sonora  and  the  Luminous  Hat ;  and 
I  could  not  form  a  conjecture  where  I  should 
find  a  man  of  such  a  character. 

"  About  the  same  time  Brilliant  was  bom, 
and  my  books  which  I  consulted  on  that 
occasion  having  informed  me  that  she  would 
be  an  extraordinary  beauty,  I  spread  a  secret 
contagion  over  the  lustre  of  her  eyes,  well 
convinced  that  I  should  be  applied  to  for  the 
remedy,  and  resolved  not  to  grant  it  but  on 
the  condition  of  obtaining  May  Flower  and 
the  treasures  of  Mother  Long  Tooth. 

"  The  curiosity  of  Fiddlestick  fortunately 
conducted  him  to  my  palace  before  he  made 
his  appearance  at  court,  and  what  I  discovered 
of  his  understanding  and  sentiments  made  me 
hope  that  if  he  undertook  the  adventure  he 
might  succeed. 

"Thus,  sire.  Fiddlestick  is  not  so  badly 
married  as  your  majesty  imagined ;  and  the 
loss  of  Cashmeer  and  Brilliant  will  be  amply 
supplied  by  the  throne  of  Circassia  and  the 
possession  of  his  beloved  May  Flower." 

Serena  had  no  sooner  finished  her  relation, 
and  the  caliph  was  prepaiing  a  long  harangue 
of  compliments  to  her,  and  of  excuses  to  May 
Flower,  when  he  was  relieved  of  his  embar- 
rassments by  supper's  being  announced,  and 
his  most  serene  majesty  had  only  time  to  say, 
"  I  trust,  most  mighty  Serena,  that  you  wiU 
unite  with  me  in  wishing  that  the  brides  and 
bridegrooms  may  enjoy  that  happiness  which 
they  deserve;  that  Brilliant  may  bear  to 
Phoenix  a  numerous  progeny  as  beautiful  as 
their  parents;  that  the  palace  of  Circassia  may 
be  filled  with  little  Fiddlesticks,  who  shall 
equal  their  father  in  ingenuity  and  courage, 
and  their  mother  in  meekness  and  patience, 
Vol.  I. 


and  that  future  generations  may  continue  to 
hail  the  auspicious  hour  which  placed  on  the 
throne  Sultan  Fiddlestick  the  First  and  his 
beloved  May  Flower." 


THE   ENCHANTER  FAUSTUS: 
A    TALE    TOLD    TO    A    YOUNG    LADY." 

Queen  Elizabeth,  in  whose  reign  a  great- 
grandfather of  my  lady,  your  mother,  was 
lord  high-admiral  of  Ireland,  was  a  princess 
wonderful  alike  for  wisdom,  knowledge,  mag- 
nificence, and  greatness  of  character.  So  far 
so  good ;  but  she  was  as  envious  as  a  dog,  and 
withal  jealous  and  cruel,  and  this  marred  all 
the  rest. 

Be  this  as  it  might,  common  report,  which 
never  fails  to  give  the  bad  side  with  the  good, 
had  borne  her  reputation  into  the  very  depths 
of  Germany,  whence  a  certain  personage  im- 
mediately set  out  to  betake  himself  to  her 
court.  His  name  was  Faust,  but  it  is  not 
unlikely  we  may  hereafter  call  him  Faustus,for 
the  convenience  of  the  rhyme,  in  case  the  fancy 
should  take  us  to  put  him  into  verae.  This 
Faustus,  a  great  magician  by  profession,  con- 
ceived a  desire  to  ascertain  in  person  whether 
the  aforesaid  Elizabeth,  whereof  such  wonders 
were  related,  was  indeed  as  marvellously  en- 
dowed with  good  qualities  as  she  was  cursed 
with  bad.  He  was  in  every  way  fitted  to 
judge  of  the  matter;  for  there  was  nothing 
took  place  up  aloft  in  the  region  of  the  stars 
and  planets  but  he  knew  of  it;  and  Satan  was 
as  obedient  to  his  beck  as  a  poodle. 

One  day  being  decked  out  with  more  than 
usual  magnificence  in  order  to  receive  some 
ambassadors,she  had  retired  after  the  ceremony 
into  her  private  closet,  where  she  summoned 
our  doctor  to  her  presence.  After  admiring 
herself  for  some  time  in  two  or  three  large 
mirrors,  she  api^eared  mightily  pleased  with 
herself. 

She  was  in  this  position  when  the  enchanter 
Faustus  made  his  appearance.  He  was  the 
most  accomplished  courtier,  for  a  conjurer,  the 
world  ever  saw,  and  knowing  the  queen's  weak- 
ness with  respect  to  her  imaginary  beauty,  he 
took  good  care  not  to  lose  so  precious  an  op- 
portunity of  paying  her  his  court.  Accord- 
ingly, playing  the  part  of  the  astounded  Esther, 
he  staggered  back  three  steps  as  if  about  to 

1  Translated  from  the  original  French  in  1849. 

3 


34 


COUNT  HAMILTON. 


fall  into  a  swoon.  "Whereupon  the  queen  ask- 
ing him  if  he  felt  ill,  he  replied, 

"No,  thank  God,  but  the  glory  of  Ahasuerus 
has  overpowered  me." 

The  queen,  who  had  the  Old  and  New 
Testament  by  heart,  considered  the  allusion 
as  just  as  it  was  ingenious,  but  not  having 
her  scejjtre  about  her  at  the  time  that  slie 
might  give  him  the  end  of  it  to  kiss  as  a  token 
of  favour,  she  contented  herself  with  drawing 
a  ruby  ring  from  her  alabaster  finger,  with 
which  he  was  just  as  well  contented. 

"  For  a  queen,  then,"  she  said,  "  you  think 
we  make  a  tolerable  figure ; "  at  the  same  time 
she  moistened  her  lips  with  the  tip  of  her 
tongue  as  if  quite  unconsciously ;  whereupon 
he  swore  the  devil  might  have  him  (and  the 
prospect  was  no  new  one  to  the  devil)  if  there 
then  existed  or  ever  had  existed  her  equal, 
crowned  or  uncrowned. 

"  O  Faustus,  my  friend,"  said  she,  "  if  the 
famous  beaiities  of  antiquity  could  but  return, 
it  would  be  apparent  that  you  flatter  us." 

"Would  your  majesty  wish  to  see  them?" 
he  replied.  "Let  her  but  speak  and  she  may 
satisfy  her  conscience  at  once." 

The  doctor's  proposal  was  snapped  at  forth- 
with, whether  from  the  queen's  desire  to  put 
his  magical  science  to  the  proof  by  so  marvel- 
lous an  application  of  it,  or  for  the  satisfaction 
of  a  curiosity  she  had  long  entertained. 

You  must  not,  however,  imagine,  Made- 
moiselle, that  what  I  am  about  to  relate  to  you 
is  a  mere  fable  and  the  coinage  of  my  own 
brain.  The  event  is  handed  down  in  the 
memoirs  of  one  of  the  wits  of  the  day,  Sir 
Philip  Sydney,  a  sort  of  favourite  of  the 
queen's,  who  has  narrated  the  adventure  at 
length  among  the  occurrences  of  his  life,  and 
I  have  it  from  the  late  Duke  of  Ormond,  your 
grand-uncle,  who  frequently  related  it  to  me 
as  a  matter  of  history. 

The  story  goes  on  to  say,  then,  that  our  con- 
jurer requested  the  queen  to  step  into  a  little 
gallery  close  to  her  apartment  while  he  went 
to  fetch  his  wand,  his  book,  and  his  long  black 
robe.  He  was  not  long  ere  he  returned  with 
all  his  talismans  and  paraphernalia.  The  gal- 
lery had  two  doors,  one  at  each  end ;  by  one 
of  these  the  personages  whom  her  majesty 
desired  to  behold  were  to  enter,  and  by  the 
other  to  depart.  Only  two  persons  more  in 
addition  to  the  queen  were  admitted  to  the 
spectacle ;  one  of  these  was  Lord  Essex,  and 
the  other  Sydney,  the  author  of  the  memoirs. 

The  queen  was  posted  about  the  middle  of  the 
gallery,  and  her  two  favourites  on  either  side 


of  her  arm-chair,  while  the  magician  began, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  to  draw  round  them  a 
mysterious  circle,  which  he  did  with  all  the 
ceremonies  usually  employed  on  such  occ£isions. 
He  then  drew  another  directly  opposite  for 
himself  to  stand  in,  leaving  a  space  between, 
through  which  the  actors  were  to  pass.  There- 
u])on  he  entreated  the  queen  not  to  utter  a 
word  so  long  as  they  remained  on  the  stage, 
and  above  all  not  to  alarm  herself  at  anything 
slie  might  see.  This  latter  precaution  was 
somewhat  superfluous  with  respect  to  her,  for 
the  good  lady  feared  neither  God  nor  devil. 
Having  imparted  this  admonition,  he  asked 
her  which  of  the  defunct  beauties  she  wished 
to  behold  first;  to  which  she  replied  that  in 
order  to  follow  the  proper  chronological  order, 
he  ought  to  begin  with  Helen  of  Troy.  Where- 
upon the  necromancer,  whose  countenance  ap- 
peared to  undergo  a  slight  change,  called  to 
them  to  "stand  firm."  Sydney  confesses  in 
his  memoirs  that  at  this  point  of  the  magical 
operation  his  heart  began  to  beat  a  little, 
adding  that  the  brave  Lord  Essex  turned  as 
white  as  a  sheet,  but  that  not  a  trace  of  any 
emotion  was  visible  in  the  queen.  It  was  then 
that — 

After  an  incantation  mutter'd, 
Sotte  voce  it  is  said, 

And  sundry  other  mummeries  utter'd, 
The  doctor  Faustus  raised  his  dead; 
And  seeing  our  two  heroes  dying 
With  fright,  said,  Hke  a  fury  crying, 
"Daughter  of  Leda,  from  your  tomb 
In  all  your  ancient  beauty  come, 
Such  as  you  were  in  olden  time, 
When  upon  Ida's  mountain  shone 
That  beauty  sparkling  as  its  clime, 
And  Paris  claim'd  thee  as  his  own." 

After  this  invocation  the  lovely  Helen  could 
not  reasonably  keep  them  waiting;  accordingly 
she  appeared  at  the  end  of  the  gallery  without 
any  one  perceiving  how  she  had  come  in.  She 
was  attired  in  a  Greek  costume,  and  our 
authoi-'s  memoire  state  that  her  dress  diff'ered 
in  nothing  from  that  worn  by  our  opera  god- 
desses. ...  As  soon  as  she  had  disappeared 
the  queen  exclaimed, 

"  What,  is  that  the  lovely  Helen?  Well,  I 
don't  plume  myself  on  my  beauty,"  she  con- 
tinued, "  but  may  I  die  if  I  would  change 
faces  with  her,  even  if  it  were  possible." 

"  I  told  your  majesty  as  much,"  replied  the 
magician;  "  and  yet  you  saw  her  exactly  as  she 
appeared  in  the  very  zenith  of  her  beauty." 

"  Still,"  said  Lord  Essex,  "  I  think  her  eyes 
may  be  considered  fine." 


THOMAS  PAENELL. 


35 


"  It  must  be  admitted,"  rejoined  Sydney, 
"  that  they  are  large,  nobly  shaped,  black  and 
sparkling,  but  what  expression  is  there  in 
them  ? " 

"  Not  a  particle,"  replied  the  favourite. 

The  queen,  whose  face  that  day  was  as  red  as 
a  turkey  cock's,  asked  them  what  they  thought 
of  Helen's  porcelain  complexion. 

"Porcelain,"  cried  Essex,  "'tis  but  common 
delf  at  the  best." 

[After  the  queen  had  seen  Mariamne  and 
Cleopatra,  fair  Rosamond  was  next  proposed, 
whom  Sydney  declared  was  like  the  queen. 
Elizabeth  was  so  pleased  with  this,  as  the 
phantom  Rosamond  had  been  very  beautiful, 


that  she  desired  Dr.  Faustus  to  call  her  before 
them  once  more.  The  doctor  tried  to  dissuade 
her,  but  she  was  determined.] 

He  assured  her,  however,  that  if  Rosa- 
mond did  return,  it  would  neither  be  through 
the  door  by  which  she  had  entered,  nor  that 
Ijy  which  she  had  departed  on  hei'  first  ap- 
pearance, and  warned  every  one  to  take  care 
of  himself,  for  he  would  not  answer  for  con- 
sequences. The  queen,  as  we  have  already 
observed,  knew  not  the  sensation  of  fear,  and 
our  two  gentlemen  in  waiting  were  by  this 
time  sufficiently  hardened  to  supernatural 
appearances,  so  that  the  doctor's  words  gave 
them  no  alarm. 


THOMAS    PARNELL. 

Born  1679  — Died  1717. 


[The  life  of  Thomas  Parnell  was  a  short  and 
uneventful  one,  though  for  a  time  he  jostled 
amongst  the  foremost  men — wits  and  poets — of 
his  day.  He  was  born  in  Dublin  in  1679,  and 
early  in  life  displayed  considerable  ability  as 
well  as  quickness  of  memory.  When  only 
thirteen  years  of  age  he  left  the  school  of  Dr. 
Jones  and  was  admitted  a  member  of  Trinity 
College.  This  admission  not  being  by  favour, 
but  after  examination,  proves  the  early,  per- 
haps the  too  early,  maturity  of  his  understand- 
ing. On  the  9th  July,  1700,  he  took  his  degree 
of  Master  of  Arts,  and  shortly  after,  having 
obtained  a  dispensation  as  being  under  can- 
onical age,  he  was  ordained  a  deacon  by  Dr. 
King,  then  Bishop  of  Derry.  Three  years 
later  he  was  ordained  priest,  and  in  1705  had 
conferredon  him  the  Archdeaconry  of  Clogher. 
About  the  same  time  also  he  married  a 
Miss  Ann  Minchin,  a  lady  of  great  beauty 
and  high  attainments,  and  who  inspired  him 
to  write  at  least  one  of  his  songs.  My  Days 
have  been  so  WondroiLS  Free.  In  1706  Parnell 
visited  England,  where  he  was  well  received, 
and  where  he  was  soon  admitted  a  member 
of  the  Scriblerus  Club,  formed  of  Pope,  Gay, 
Arbuthnot,  Swift,  and  Jervas.  Pope  especi- 
ally soon  became  his  warm  friend,  mutual 
services  drawing  them  nearer  and  nearer  to 
each  other.  His  erudition  and  classical  know- 
ledge were  of  great  use  to  Pope  in  producing 
his  translation  of  Homer,  an  obligation  the 
great  man  repaid  by  his  edition  of  Parnell's 
works  after  the  early  death  of  their  author. 


Of  the  Scriblerus  papers  Parnell  is  said  to 
have  written  or  had  a  hand  in  several.  The 
Life  of  Zoilas  was  from  his  pen,  and  in  the 
Ch'igin  of  the  Sciences  from  the  Monkies  in 
Ethiopia^  he  had  a  principal  share,  according 
to  Pope.  He  also  wrote  papers  for  the  Guar- 
dian and  Spectator,  and  some  of  his  poems 
having  appeared,  he  was  on  the  highroad  to 
fame  when  in  1712  his  wife  died,  and,  moved 
by  sorrow  and  the  lassitude  of  a  weak  con- 
stitution, he  gave  way  a  little  more  than  was 
wise  to  the  delights  of  the  bottle.  This,  how- 
ever, he  soon  shook  off  to  a  great  extent,  being 
of  too  pure  and  refined  a  nature  to  become  its 
slave.  In  1713,  by  the  good  offices  of  Swift, 
he  obtained  a  prebend  from  Archbishop  King, 
and  in  1716  the  vicarage  of  Finglass,  worth 
£400  a  year.  This  last  he  did  not  long  enjoy, 
for  on  his  way  to  Ireland  in  July,  1717,  he  died 
at  Chester,  and  was  buried  in  Trinity  Church 
in  that  city.  Over  his  grave  no  monument  was 
placed,  not  even  by  his  nephew.  Sir  John 
Parnell,  who  by  his  death  became  possessor 
of  the  hereditary  property  of  the  family. 

Campbell,  in  his  Specitnens  of  British  Poetry, 
says:  "The  compass  of  Parnell's  poetry  is  not 
extensive,  but  its  tone  is  peculiarly  delightful 
. . .  from  the  graceful  and  reserved  sensibility 
that  accompanied  his  polished  phraseology. 
The  curiosa  felicitas,  the  studied  happiness  of 
his  diction,  does  not  spoil  its  simplicity.  His 
poetry  is  like  a  flower  that  has  been  trained 
and  planted  by  the  skill  of  the  gardener,  but 
which  preserves  in  its  cultured  state  the  nat- 


36 


THOMAS   PAENELL. 


ural  fragi-ance  of  its  wilder  air."  A  later 
critic,  the  Eev.  John  Mitford,  says,  that  in  his 
Hesiod,  his  Hermit,  and  his  Fairy  Tale,  he 
"has  given  us  poems  that,  in  theii-  kind,  it 
would  be  very  difficult  to  surpass  in  excel- 
lence." Dr.  Johnson,  after  speaking  of  Par- 
nell's  Hermit,  says,  "Of  his  other  compositions, 
it  is  impossible  to  say  whether  they  are  the 
productions  of  nature  so  excellent  as  not  to 
want  the  help  of  art,  or  of  art  so  refined  as  to 
resemble  nature." 

In  1721  Pope  gathered  together  and  pub- 
lished in  one  volume  a  collection  of  the  best 
of  Parnell's  poems,  to  which  he  attached  an 
epistle  to  the  Earl  of  Oxford  in  his  very  best 
manner.  In  1758  The  Posthumous  Works  of 
Parnell  appeared  in  Dublin.  These,  with 
several  additional  poems,  collected  by  Mr. 
Nicholls,  were  printed  in  the  London  collec- 
tion of  English  poets,  and  afterwards  reprinted 
in  the  British  Poets,  published  at  Edinburgh 
in  1795.  Goldsmith  published  an  edition  of 
Pope's  volume,  to  which  he  added  a  life,  and 
two  poems.  Piety  or  the  Vision  and  Bacchus. 
During  the  last  seventy  or  eighty  years  several 
editions  of  Parnell  have  appeared,  and  he  has 
a  place  among  the  Aldine  Series  of  Poets^ 


A   FAIRY   TALE, 

IN  THE  ANCIENT   ENGLISH   STYLE. 

In  Britain's  isle  and  Arthur's  days, 
When  midnight  faeries  daunc'd  the  maze, 

Liv'd  Edwin  of  the  green; 
Edwin,  I  wis,  a  gentle  youth, 
Endow'd  with  courage,  sense,  and  truth, 

Though  badly  shap'd  he  been. 

His  mountain  hack  mote  well  be  said 
To  measure  heighth  against  his  head, 

And  lift  itself  above: 
Yet  spite  of  all  that  nature  did 
To  make  his  uncouth  form  forbid. 

This  creature  dar'd  to  love. 

He  felt  the  charms  of  Edith's  eyes. 
Nor  wanted  hope  to  gain  the  prize, 

Could  ladies  look  within; 
But  one  Sir  Topaz  dress'd  with  art. 
And,  if  a  shape  could  win  a  heart. 

He  had  a  shape  to  win. 

Edwin,  if  right  I  read  my  song, 
With  slighted  passion  pac'd  along 

All  in  the  moony  light: 
'Twas  near  an  old  enchaunted  court, 


Where  sportive  faeries  made  resort 
To  revel  out  the  night. 

His  heart  was  drear,  his  hope  was  cross'd, 
'Twas  late,  'twas  farr,  the  path  was  lost 

That  reach'd  the  neighbour-town; 
With  weary  steps  he  quits  the  shades, 
Resolv'd  the  darkling  dome  he  treads, 

And  drops  his  limbs  adown. 

But  scant  he  lays  him  on  the  floor. 
When  hollow  winds  remove  the  door, 

A  trembling  rocks  the  ground: 
And,  well  I  ween  to  count  aright, 
At  once  a  hundred  tapers  light 

On  all  the  walls  around. 

Now  sounding  tongues  assail  his  ear, 
Now  sounding  feet  approachen  near, 

And  now  the  sounds  encrease; 
And  from  the  corner  where  he  lay 
He  sees  a  train  profusely  gay 

Come  pranckling  o'er  the  place. 

But,  trust  me,  gentles,  never  yet 
Was  dight  a  masquing  half  so  neat, 

Or  half  so  rich  before; 
The  country  lent  the  sweet  perfumes, 
The  sea  the  pearl,  the  sky  the  plumes. 

The  town  its  silken  store. 

Now  whilst  he  gaz'd,  a  gallant  drest 
In  flaunting  robes  above  the  rest. 
With  awfull  accent  cried, 
"What  mortal  of  a  wretched  mind, 
Whose  sighs  infect  the  balmy  wind. 
Has  here  presumed  to  hide?  " 

At  this  the  swain,  whose  venturous  soul 
No  fears  of  magic  art  controul, 
Advanc'd  in  open  sight; 
"Nor  have  I  cause  of  dreed,"  he  said, 
"Who  view,  by  no  presumption  led, 
Your  revels  of  the  night. 

"  'Twas  grief  for  scorn  of  faithful  love 
Which  made  my  steps  unweeting  rove 

Amid  the  nightly  dew." 
'"Tis  well,"  the  gallant  cries  again, 
"We  faeries  never  injure  men 

Who  dare  to  tell  us  true. 

"  Exalt  thy  love-dejected  heart. 
Be  mine  the  task,  or  ere  we  part, 

To  make  thee  grief  resign ; 
Now  take  the  pleasure  of  tliy  chaunce; 
Whilst  I  with  Mab  my  partner  daunce. 

Be  little  Mable  thine." 

He  spoke,  and  all  a  sudden  there 
Light  musick  floats  in  wanton  air; 
The  monarch  leads  the  queen; 


THOMAS   PAENELL. 


37 


The  rest  their  faerie  partners  found, 

And  Mal)le  trimly  tript  the  ground 

With  Edwin  of  the  green. 

The  dauncing  past,  the  board  was  laid. 
And  siker  sucli  a  feast  was  made 

As  heart  and  lip  desire; 
Withouten  hands  the  dishes  fly, 
The  glasses  with  a  wish  come  nigh, 

And  with  a  wish  retire. 

But  now  to  please  the  faerie  king, 
Full  ever}'  deal  they  laugh  and  sing, 

And  antick  feats  devi.se; 
Some  wind  and  tumble  like  an  ape, 
And  other-some  transmute  their  shape 

In  Edwin's  wondering  eyes. 

Till  one  at  last  that  Robin  hight, 
Renown'd  for  pinching  maids  by  night, 

Has  hent  him  up  aloof; 
And  full  again-st  the  beam  he  flung, 
Where  by  the  back  the  youth  he  hung 

To  spraul  unneath  the  roof. 

From  thence,  "  Reverse  my  charm,"  he  cries, 
"And  let  it  fairly  now  suffice 

The  gambol  has  been  shown. " 
But  Oberon  answers  with  a  smile, 
"Content  thee,  Edwin,  for  a  while. 
The  vantage  is  thine  own. " 

Here  ended  all  the  phantome  play; 
They  smelt  the  fresh  approach  of  day. 

And  heard  a  cock  to  crow; 
The  whirling  wind  that  bore  the  crowd 
Has  clapp'd  the  door,  and  whistled  loud, 

To  warn  them  all  to  go. 

Then  screaming  all  at  once  they  fly. 
And  all  at  once  the  tapers  die; 

Poor  Edwin  falls  to  floor; 
Forlorn  his  state,  and  dark  the  place. 
Was  never  wight  in  sike  a  case 

Through  all  the  land  before. 

But  soon  as  Dan  Apollo  rose. 
Full  jolly  creature  home  he  goes. 

He  feels  his  back  the  less; 
His  honest  tongue  and  steady  mind 
Han  rid  him  of  the  lump  behind 

Which  made  him  want  success. 

With  lusty  livelyhed  he  talks. 
He  seems  a  dauncing  as  he  walks; 

His  story  soon  took  wind; 
And  beauteous  Edith  sees  the  youth, 
Endow'd  with  courage,  sense,  and  truth. 

Without  a  bunch  behind. 

The  story  told,  Sir  Topaz  mov'd. 

The  youth  of  Edith  erst  approv'd. 

To  see  the  revel  scene: 


At  close  of  eve  he  leaves  his  home. 

And  wends  to  find  the  ruin'd  dome 

All  on  the  gloomy  plain. 

As  there  he  bides,  it  so  befell. 

The  wind  came  rustling  down  a  dell, 

A  shaking  seiz'd  the  wall: 
Up  spring  the  tapers  as  before, 
The  faeries  bragly  foot  the  floor, 

And  musick  fills  the  hall. 

But  certes  sorely  sunk  with  woe 
Sir  Topaz  sees  the  elfin  show. 

His  spirits  in  him  die: 
When  Oberon  cries,  "A  man  is  near, 
A  mortall  passion,  cleeped  fear, 

Hangs  flagging  in  the  sky. " 

With  that  Sir  Topaz,  hapless  youth ! 
In  accents  faultering  ay  for  ruth 

Intreats  them  pity  graunt; 
For  als  he  been  a  mister  wight 
Betray'd  by  wandering  in  the  night 

To  tread  the  circled  haunt. 

'  Ah  losell  vile  ! "  at  once  they  roar, 
'■  And  little  skill'd  of  faerie  lore. 

Thy  cause  to  come  we  know: 
Now  has  thy  kestrell  courage  fell; 
And  faeries,  since  a  lie  you  tell. 
Are  free  to  work  thee  woe." 

Then  Will,  who  bears  the  wispy  fire 
To  trail  the  swains  amon;,'  the  mire. 

The  caitive  upward  flung; 
There  like  a  tortoise  in  a  shop 
He  dangled  from  the  chamber-top, 

Where  whilome  Edwin  hung. 

The  revel  now  proceeds  apace, 
Deffly  they  frisk  it  o'er  the  place. 

They  sit,  they  drink,  and  eat; 
The  time  with  frolick  mirth  beguile, 
And  poor  Sir  Topaz  hangs  the  while 

Till  all  the  rout  retreat. 

By  this  the  starrs  began  to  wink. 
They  shriek,  they  fly,  the  tapers  sink. 

And  down  j'drops  the  knight: 
For  never  spell  by  faerie  laid 
With  strong  enchantment  bound  a  glade 

Beyond  the  lengt'n  of  night. 

Chill,  dark,  alone,  adreed,  he  lay, 
Till  up  the  welkin  rose  the  day. 

Then  deem'd  the  dole  was  o'er: 
But  wot  ye  well  his  harder  lot? 
His  seely  back  the  bunch  has  got 

Which  Edwin  lost  afore. 

This  tale  a  Sybil-nurse  aread  ; 
She  softly  strok'd  my  youngling  head. 
And  when  the  tale  was  done. 


38 


THOMAS  PAKNELL. 


"  Thus  3ome  are  bom,  my  son,"  she  cries, 
"With  base  impediments  to  rise, 
And  some  are  born  to  none." 


THE    HERMIT. 

Far  in  a  wild,  unknown  to  public  view. 
From  youth  to  age  a  reverend  hermit  gTCw; 
The  moss  his  bed,  the  cave  his  humble  cell, 
His  food  the  fruits,  his  drink  the  crystal  well: 
Remote  from  man,  with  God  he  pass'd  the  days. 
Prayer  all  his  business,  all  his  pleasure  praise. 

A  life  so  sacred,  such  serene  repose, 

Seem'd  heaven  itself,  till  one  suggestion  rose; 

That  vice  should  triumph,  virtue  vice  obey. 

This  sprung  some  doubt  of  Providence's  sway: 

His  hopes  no  more  a  certain  prospect  boast, 

And  all  the  tenour  of  his  soul  is  lost. 

So  when  a  smooth  expanse  receives  imprest 

Calm  nature's  image  on  its  watery  breast, 

Down  bend  the  banks,  the  trees  depending  grow. 

And  skies  beneath  with  answering  colours  glow: 

But  if  a  stone  the  gentle  scene  divide, 

Swift  ruffling  circles  curl  on  every  side. 

And  glimmering  fragments  of  a  broken  sun. 

Banks,  trees,  and  skies,  in  thick  disorder  run. 

To  clear  this  doubt,  to  know  the  world  by  sight, 
To  find  if  books,  or  swains,  report  it  right 
(For  yet  by  swains  alone  the  world  he  knew 
Whose  feet  came  wandering  o'er  the  nightly  dew). 
He  quits  his  cell;  the  pilgrim-staff  he  bore, 
And  fix'd  the  scallop  in  his  hat  before; 
Then  with  the  sun  a  rising  journey  went. 
Sedate  to  think,  and  watching  each  event. 

The  morn  was  wasted  in  the  pathless  grass. 
And  long  and  lonesome  was  the  wild  to  pass; 
But  when  the  southern  sun  had  warm'd  the  day, 
A  youth  came  posting  o'er  a  crossing  way; 
His  raiment  decent,  his  complexion  fair, 
And  soft  in  graceful  ringlets  wav'd  his  hair. 
Then  near  approaching,  "  Father,  hail !"  he  cried; 
"And  hail,  my  son,"  the  reverend  sire  replied; 
Words  follow'd  words,  from  question  answer  flow'd. 
And  talk  of  various  kinds  deceiv'd  the  road; 
Till  each  with  other  pleas'd,  and  loath  to  part, 
While  in  their  age  they  differ,  join  in  heart: 
Thus  stands  an  aged  elm  in  ivy  bound, 
Thus  youthful  ivy  clasps  an  elm  around. 

Now  sunk  the  sun;  the  closing  hour  of  day 
Came  onward,  mantled  o'er  with  sober  gray; 
Nature  in  silence  bid  the  world  repose; 
When  near  the  road  a  stately  palace  rose: 
There  by  the  moon  through  ranks  of  trees  they  pass. 
Whose  verdure  crown'd  their  sloping  sides  of  grass. 


It  chanc'd  the  noble  master  of  the  dome 

Still   made  his   house   the  wandering  stranger's 

home: 
Yet  still  the  kindness,  from  a  thirst  of  praise, 
Prov'd  the  vain  flourish  of  expensive  ease. 
The  pair  arrive:  the  liveried  servants  wait; 
Their  lord  receives  them  at  the  pompous  gate. 
The  table  groans  with  costly  piles  of  food. 
And  all  is  more  than  hospitably  good. 
Then  led  to  rest,  the  day's  long  toil  they  drown. 
Deep  sunk  in  sleep,  and  silk,  and  heaps  of  down. 

At  length  'tis  mom,  and  at  the  dawn  of  day 
Along  the  wide  canals  the  zephyrs  play; 
Fresh  o'er  the  gay  parterres  the  breezes  creep. 
And  shake  the  neighbouring  wood  to  banish  sleep. 
Up  rise  the  guests,  obedient  to  the  call: 
An  early  banquet  deck'd  the  splendid  hall; 
Rich  luscious  wine  a  golden  goblet  grac'd. 
Which  the  kind  master  forc'd  the  guests  to  taste. 
Then,  pleas'd  and  thankful,  from  the  porch  they  go; 
And,  but  the  landlord,  none  had  cause  of  woe; 
His  cup  was  vanish'd;  for  in  secret  guise 
The  younger  guest  purloin'd  the  glittering  prize. 

As  one  who  spies  a  serpent  in  his  way. 

Glistening  and  basking  in  the  summer  ray, 

Disorder'd  stops  to  shun  the  danger  near. 

Then  walks  with  faintness  on,  and  looks  with  fear; 

So  seem'd  the  sire;  when  far  upon  the  road. 

The  shining  spoil  his  wily  partner  show'd. 

He  stopp'd  with  silence,  walk'd  with  trembling 

heart. 
And  much  he  wish'd,  but  durst  not  ask  to  part: 
Murmuring  he  lifts  his  eyes,  and  thinks  it  hard 
That  generous  actions  meet  a  base  reward. 

While  thus  they  pass,  the  sun  his  glory  shrouds, 
The  changing  skies  hang  out  their  sable  clouds; 
A  sound  in  air  presag'd  approaching  rain. 
And  beasts  to  covert  scud  across  the  plain. 
Warn'd  by  the  signs,  the  wandering  pair  retreat, 
To  seek  for  shelter  at  a  neighbouring  seat. 
'Twas  built  with  turrets,  on  a  rising  ground, 
And  strong,  and  large,  and  unimprov'd  around; 
Its  owner's  temper,  timorous  and  severe. 
Unkind  and  griping,  caus'd  a  desert  there. 

As  near  the  miser's  heavy  doors  they  drew. 
Fierce  rising  gusts  with  sudden  fury  blew; 
The  nimble  lightning  mix'd  with  showers  began, 
And  o'er  their  heads  loud  rolling  thunder  ran. 
Here  long  they  knock,  but  knock  or  call  in  vain. 
Driven  by  the  wind,  and  batter'd  by  the  rain. 
At  length  some  pity  warm'd  the  master's  breast 
('Twas  then  his  threshold  first  receiv'd  a  guest). 
Slow  creaking  turns  the  door  with  jealous  care. 
And  half  he  welcomes  in  the  shivering  pair; 
One  frugal  faggot  lights  the  naked  walls, 
And  nature's  fervour  through  their  limbs  recalls: 
Bread  of  the  coarsest  sort,  with  eager  wine, 


THOMAS   PARNELL. 


39 


Each  hardly  granted,  serv'd  them  both  to  dine; 
And  when  the  tempest  first  appear'd  to  cease, 
A  ready  warning  bid  them  part  in  peace. 
With  still  remark  the  pondering  hermit  view'd 
In  one  bo  rich,  a  life  so  poor  and  rude; 
And  why  should  such,  within  himself  he  cried. 
Lock  the  lost  wealth  a  thousand  want  beside? 
But  what  new  marks  of  wonder  soon  took  place 
In  every  settling  feature  of  his  face, 
When  from  his  vest  the  young  companion  bore 
That  cup,  the  generous  landlord  own'd  before, 
And  paid  profusely  with  the  precious  bowl 
The  stinted  kindness  of  this  churlish  soul! 

But  now  the  clouds  in  airy  tumult  fly; 

The  sun  emerging  opes  an  azure  sky; 

A  fresher  green  the  smelling  leaves  display, 

And,  glittering  as  they  tremble,  cheer  the  day: 

The  weather  courts  them  from  the  poor  retreat, 

And  the  glad  master  bolts  the  wary  gate. 

While    hence   they   walk,    the   pilgrim's   bosom 

wrought 
With  all  the  travel  of  uncertain  thought; 
His  partner's  acts  without  their  cause  appear, 
'Twas  there  a  vice,  and  seem'd  a  madness  here: 
Detesting  that,  and  pitying  this,  he  goes. 
Lost  and  confounded  with  the  various  shows. 

Now  night's  dim  shades  again  involve  the  sky. 
Again  the  wanderers  want  a  place  to  lie, 
Again  they  search,  and  find  a  lodging  nigh: 
The  soil  improv'd  around,  the  mansion  neat, 
And  neither  poorly  low,  nor  idly  great: 
It  seem'd  to  speak  its  master's  turn  of  mind. 
Content,  and  not  for  praise,  but  virtue  kind. 

Hither  the  walkers  turn  with  weary  feet. 
Then  bless  the  mansion,  and  the  master  greet: 
Their  greeting  fair  bestow'd,  with  modest  guise, 
The  courteous  master  hears,  and  thus  replies: 

"  Without  a  vain,  without  a  grudging  heart. 
To  him  who  gives  us  all,  I  yield  a  part; 
From  him  you  come,  for  him  accept  it  here, 
A  frank  and  sober,  more  than  costly  cheer." 
He  spoke,  and  bid  the  welcome  table  spread, 
Then  talk'd  of  virtue  till  the  time  of  bed, 
When  the  grave  household  round  his  hall  repair, 
Warn'd  by  a  bell,  and  close  the  hours  with  prayer. 

At  length  the  world,  renew'd  by  calm  repose. 
Was  strong  for  toil,  the  dappled  mom  arose. 
Before  the  pilgrims  part,  the  younger  crept 
Near  the  clos'd  cradle  where  an  infant  slept. 
And  writh'd  his  neck:  the  landlord's  little  pride, 
0  strange  return!  grew  black,  and  gasp'd,  and  died. 
Horror  of  horrors!  what!  his  only  son! 
How  look'd  our  hermit  when  the  fact  was  done? 
Not  hell,  though  hell's  black  jaws  in  sunder  part. 
And  breathe  blue  fire,  could  more  assault  his  heart. 


Confus'd,  and  struck  with  silence  at  the  deed. 
He  flies,  but,  trembling,  fails  to  fly  with  speed; 
His  steps  the  youth  pursues:  the  country  lay 
Perplex'd  with  roads,  a  servant  show'd  the  way: 
A  river  cross'd  the  path;  the  passage  o'er 
Was  nice  to  find;  the  servant  trod  before : 
Long  arms  of  oaks  an  open  bridge  supplied. 
And  deep  the  waves  beneath  the  bending  glide. 
The  youth,  who  seem'd  to  watch  a  time  to  sin, 
Approach'd  the  careless  guide,  and  thrust  him  in; 
Plunging  he  falls,  and  rising  lifts  his  head. 
Then  flashing  turns,  and  sinks  among  the  dead. 

Wild,  sparkling  rage  inflames  the  father's  eyes. 
He  bursts  the  bands  of  fear,  and  madly  cries, 
"  Detested  wretch!" — but  scarce  his  speech  began, 
When  the  strange  partner  seem'd  no  longer  man: 
His  youthful  face  grew  more  serenely  sweet; 
His  robe  tum'd  white,  and  flow'd  upon  his  feet; 
Fair  rounds  of  radiant  points  invest  his  hair; 
Celestial  odours  breathe  through  purpled  air; 
And  wings,  whose  colours  glitter'd  on  the  day. 
Wide  at  his  back  their  gradual  plumes  display. 
The  form  ethereal  bursts  upon  his  sight. 
And  moves  in  all  the  majesty  of  light. 

Though  loud  at  first  the  pilgrim's  passion  grew. 
Sudden  he  gaz'd,  and  wist  not  what  to  do; 
Surprise  in  secret  chains  his  words  suspends. 
And  in  a  calm  his  settling  temper  ends. 
But  silence  here  the  beauteous  angel  broke, 
The  voice  of  music  ravish'd  as  he  spoke. 

"Thy  prayer,  thy  praise,  thy  life  to  vice  unknown, 
In  sweet  memorial  rise  before  the  throne: 
These  charms,  success  in  our  bright  region  find. 
And  force  an  angel  down,  to  calm  thy  mind; 
For  this,  commission'd,  I  forsook  the  sky, 
Nay,  cease  to  kneel — thy  fellow-servant  I. 

"Then  know  the  truth  of  government  divine, 
And  let  these  scruples  be  no  longer  thine. 

"The  Maker  justly  claims  that  world  he  made, 
In  this  the  riLzht  of  Providence  is  laid; 
Its  sacred  majesty  through  all  depends 
On  using  second  means  to  work  his  ends: 
'Tis  thus,  withdrawn  in  state  from  human  eye. 
The  power  exerts  his  attributes  on  high. 
Your  actions  uses,  nor  controls  your  will, 
^Vnd  bids  the  doubting  sons  of  men  be  still. 

"What  strange  events  can  strike  with  more  sur- 
prise. 
Than  those  which  lately  struck  thy  wondering  eyes? 
Yet  taught  by  these,  confess  th'  Almighty  just, 
And  where  you  can't  unriddle,  learn  to  trust ! 

"The  great,  vain  man,  who  far'd  on  costly  food, 
WTiose  life  was  too  luxurious  to  be  good; 
Who  made  his  ivory  stands  with  goblets  shine, 
And  forc'd  his  guests  to  morning  draughts  of  wine, 


40 


ROBEET   VISCOUNT  MOLESWOBTH. 


Has,  with  the  cup,  the  graceless  custom  lost. 
And  still  he  welcomes,  but  with  less  of  cost. 

"The  mean,  suspicious  wretch,  whose  bolted  door 
Ne'er  mov'd  in  duty  to  the  wandering  poor; 
With  him  I  left  the  cup,  to  teach  his  mind 
That  Heaven  can  bless,  if  mortals  will  be  kind. 
Conscious  of  wanting  worth,  he  views  the  bowl. 
And  feels  compassion  touch  his  grateful  soul. 
Thus  artists  melt  the  sullen  ore  of  lead, 
With  heaping  coals  of  fire  upon  its  head; 
In  the  kind  warmth  the  metal  learns  to  glow. 
And  loose  from  dross,  the  silver  runs  below. 

"  Long  had  our  pious  friend  in  virtue  trod. 

But  now  the  child  half-wean'd  his  heart  from  God; 

Child  of  his  age,  for  him  he  liv'd  in  pain, 

And  measur'd  back  his  steps  to  earth  again. 

To  what  excesses  had  this  dotage  run! 

But  God,  to  save  the  father,  took  the  son. 

To  all  but  thee,  in  fits  he  seem'd  to  go. 

And  'twas  my  ministry  to  deal  the  blow. " 


The  poor  fond  parent,  humbled  in  the  dust, 
Now  owns  in  tears  the  punishment  was  just. 

' '  But  how  had  all  his  fortune  felt  a  wrack, 
Had  that  false  servant  sped  in  safety  back ! 
This  night  his  treasur'd  heaps  he  meant  to  steal, 
And  what  a  fund  of  charity  would  fail! 

"Thus  Heaven  instructs  thy  mind:  this  trial  o'er, 
Depart  in  peace,  resign,  and  sin  no  more." 

On  sounding  pinions  here  the  youth  withdrew, 
The  sage  stood  wondering  as  the  seraph  ilew. 
Thus  look'd  Elisha,  when,  to  mount  on  high, 
His  master  took  the  chariot  of  the  sky; 
The  fiery  pomp  ascending  left  the  view; 
The  prophet  gaz'd,  and  wish'd  to  follow  too. 

The  bending  hermit  here  a  prayer  begun, 
"  Lord!  as  in  heaven,  on  earth  thy  will  be  done!" 
Then  gladly  turning,  sought  his  ancient  place, 
And  pass'd  a  life  of  piety  and  peace. 


ROBERT  VISCOUNT  MOLESWORTH. 

Born  1656  -  Died  1725. 


[Robert  MolesworthjViscountMolesworth  of 
Swords,  in  County  Dublin,  was  born  at  Dublin 
in  December,  1 656,  four  days  after  the  death  of 
his  father,  an  eminent  merchant  of  that  city, 
and  one  who  had  in  early  life  served  as  a  cap- 
tain in  the  army.  In  Dublin  young  Moles- 
worth  received  his  education,  and  in  due  time 
he  entered  the  university  there.  Before  he 
was  of  full  age  he  married  a  sister  of  Richard, 
Earl  of  Bellamont,by  whom  he  had  adaughter, 
afterwards  well  known  to  the  world  as  Mrs. 
Monk,  author  of  Marinda}  In  1688  he  took 
such  a  prominent  part  on  the  side  of  William 
III.  that  he  was  attainted  and  his  estate 
sequestrated  by  the  Irish  parliament  of  James 
on  the  2nd  May,  1689.  This,  however,  only 
served  to  his  advancement,  for  on  the  success  of 
William  he  had  all  his  estates  restored,  was 
called  to  the  privy-council,  and  in  1692  sent 
envoy  extraordinary  to  the  court  of  Denmark. 

In  Denmark  Molesworth  resided  about  three 
years,  but  at  the  end  of  that  time  he  seems  to 
have  given  offence  to  the  Danish  king,  and  was 
forbidden  the  court.  This  oflence  appears  to 
have  consisted  in  travelling  the  king's  road 
and  hunting  the  king's  game.  Turning  his 
back  upon  the  coui-t  without  the  ceremony  of 
a  final  audience  he  hastened  to  Flandei's,  and 


'  See  page  11. 


from  thence  home  without  leave.  So  soon  as 
he  arrived  he  began  to  draw  up  his  Account 
of  Denmark,  in  which  he  proved  that  there 
were  indeed  many  things  "rotten  in  the  state". 
As  might  be  expected,  Prince  George  of  Den- 
mark was  highly  incensed  at  the  free  speech 
in  Molesworth's  work,  and  Scheel,  the  Danish 
envoy,  presented  a  memorial  of  complaint 
against  it  to  William  III.  Scheel  also  em- 
ployed Dr.  William  King  of  London,  author 
of  the  Art  of  Love  and  the  Art  of  Cookery,  to 
write  a  reply,  and  presented  him  with  mate- 
rials for  spicing  his  dish. 

Molesworth,  however,  took  little  notice  of 
all  this  fuss.  His  book  and  himself  had  by 
one  bound  sprung  into  popularity,  and  the 
former  was  immediately  translated  into  several 
languages.  Shaftesbury,  who  saw  in  the  book 
not  only  an  Account  of  Denmark, hut  a  politico- 
philosophical  treatise  of  a  high  kind,  spoke  out 
his  approval,  and  "  conceived  a  great  esteem 
for  the  autlior,  which  afterwards  ripened  into 
a  close  friendship  ".  Later  on,  in  writing  to 
Molesworth,  Shaftesbury  said,  "You  have 
long  had  my  heart  even  before  I  knew  you 
personally.  For  the  wholly  and  truly  pious 
man  who  revealed  the  greatest  of  mysteries; 
he  who,  with  a  truly  generous  love  to  man- 
kind and  his  country,  pointed  out  the  state  of 


ROBERT  VISCOUNT  MOLESWORTH. 


41 


Denmark  to  other  states,  and  prophesied  of 
things  highly  important  to  the  growing  age ; 
he,  I  say,  had  ah-eady  gained  me  as  his  sworn 
friend  before  he  was  so  kind  as  to  make 
friendship  reciprocal  by  his  acquaintance  and 
expressed  esteem." 

After  this  Molesworth  sat  in  the  House  of 
Conmions  of  both  kingdoms,  being  member 
for  the  borough  of  Swords  in  Ireland,  and  for 
those  of  Bodmin,  St.  Michael,  and  Retford  in 
England.  He  sat  as  a  member  of  the  pi'ivy- 
council  till  the  latter  end  of  the  reign  of 
Queen  Anne,  when,  owing  to  the  height  of 
party  feeling,  he  was  removed  from  the  board. 
This  w;h.s  on  complaint  of  the  Lower  House  of 
Convocation  that  he  had  affronted  the  clergy 
when  they  presented  their  address  to  the  loi'd- 
^hancellor,  and  that  he  had  said  openly,  as  no 
doubt  he  did,  "They  that  have  turned  the 
world  upside  down  are  come  hither  also." 

However,  as  Molesworth  was  a  constant 
and  strenuous  defender  of  the  succession  of 
the  house  of  Hanover,  George  I.,  on  the 
naming  of  his  privy-council  for  Ireland,  in 
October,  1714,  made  him  a  member.  Soon 
.after  he  was  appointed  a  commissioner  of 
trade  and  plantations,  and  in  1716  he  was 
made  a  peer  of  Ireland  under  the  title  of 
Baron  of  Philipstown  and  Viscount  Moles- 
worth of  Swords.  For  some  years  longer, 
that  is,  until  the  early  part  of  1723,  he  con- 
tinued his  labours.  In  1723  he  retired  into 
})rivate  life,  in  which  he  passed  two  quiet 
happy  yeai-s,  and  died  at  Breedenstowu  in  the 
county  of  Dublin  on  the  22d  of  May,  1725. 
He  was  buried  at  Swords. 

In  addition  to  his  Account  of  Denmark, 
from  which  we  quote,  Molesworth  wrote  a 
great  number  of  able  pamphlets,  and  ephemeral 
but  highly  successful  and  useful  tracts,  of  a 
political  and  politico-philosophical  kind.  He 
translated  into  English  the  Franco-G'allia  of 
Hottoman,  of  which  a  second  edition  appeared 
in  1721,  with  additions  and  a  new  preface  by 
the  translator.  His  Address  to  the  House  of 
Commons  on  the  encouragement  of  agriculture 
was  frequently  referred  to  for  many  years,  and 
his  letter  on  the  Irish  peerage  is  not  yet  for- 
gotten in  certain  quarters. 

The  letters  of  Locke  and  Molyneux  show 
that  both  these  philosophers  had  a  great 
respect  for  Molesworth,  and  held  him  in  high 
regard.  Locke  calls  him  "an  extraordinary 
man;"  and  a  biogi'apher  writing  in  1798  speaks 
of  his  minor  works  as  written  "  with  great 
force  of  reason  and  masculine  eloquence,  in 
defence  of  liberty  and  his  ideas  of  the  con- 


stitution of  his  country  and  the  common  rights 
of  mankind ;  and  it  is  certain  that  few  men 
of  his  fortune  and  quality  were  more  learned, 
or  more  highly  esteemed  by  men  of  learning."] 


THE   COURT   OF   DENMARK.* 

The  ordinary  diversions  of  the  court  are  pro- 
gi'esses,  which  are  made  once  a  year  at  least, 
to  Sleswick  or  Holstein,either  to  make  a  review 
of  some  troops  or  to  see  the  fortifications  at 
Rendsburg;  besides  smaller  journeys  to  Hol- 
land and  elsewhere,  up  and  down  the  country. 
These  are  of  no  expense  to  the  treasury,  because 
the  travelling  waggons  and  horses  are  found  l)y 
the  boors,  who  are  also  to  pay  their  personal 
attendants,  and  be  ready  for  all  necessary 
services.  During  five  or  six  weeks  every  sum- 
mer the  court  removes  to  Jagersburg,  a  small 
hunting  house  situated  upon  a  little  lake  within 
four  English  miles  from  Copenhagen,  and  not 
far  from  the  sea;  and  for  five  or  six  weeks 
more  it  resides  at  Fredericksburg,  the  chief 
country  palace  of  the  kings  of  Denmark,  about 
twenty  English  miles  from  Copeidiagen,  begun 
by  Christian  the  Fourth,  and  finished  by  this 
king's  father,  Frederick  the  Third.  This  is 
that  house  which  the  Danes  boast  so  much  of, 
and  tell  wonders  of  the  quantity  of  money  it 
cost  in  building.  It  is  seated  in  the  midst  of 
a  lake,  the  foundations  of  it  being  laid  in  the 
water,  which  proljably  occasioned  the  greater 
part  of  the  expense ;  you  pass  into  it  over 
several  drawbridges.  This  watery  situation  in 
so  moist  and  cold  a  country  cannot  be  approved 
by  the  critical  in  seats,  esjjecially  when  the 
rising  grounds  about  this  lake  (which  are 
clothed  with  fine  woods)  afford  much  better 
places  both  for  health  and  pros]ject ;  but  it  is 
the  humour  of  all  this  kingdom  to  build  in  the 
midst  of  lakes ;  which  I  suppose  was  at  first 
practised  upon  the  score  of  security.  This 
palace,  notwithstanding  the  great  cost  they 
talk  of,  is  far  from  being  magnificent  or 
well  contrived ;  for  the  rooms  are  low,  the 
apartments  ill  disposed,  the  fine  chapel  much 
too  long  in  proportion  to  its  breadth,  and  has 
a  gallery  over  it  which  has  one  of  the  worst 
contrived  entrances  that  can  be  imagined.  In 
fine,  it  falls  far  short  of  many  of  our  noblemen's 
country  houses  in  England,  yet  is  esteemed  by 
the  Danes  as  a  none-such.     There  is  indeed  a 


1  Tliis  and  the  following  extract  are  from  An  Account 
of  Denmark. 


42 


EOBERT  VISCOUNT   MOLESWORTH. 


fine  park  about  it,  well  filled  with  red-deer, 
having  large  ponds,  high  trees  in  great  quan- 
tity, a  good  bathing  house,  and  other  country 
embellishments;  so  that  it  is  by  far  to  be 
preferred  to  all  the  rest  of  the  king's  houses, 
which,  except  these  two  last  mentioned,  are 
for  the  most  jjart  out  of  repair;  that  of  the 
fortress  of  Crovenburg  near  Elsignor,  and  of 
Coldingen  in  Jutland,  with  others,  being 
scarce  habitable  even  during  one  fortnight  in 
the  summer  quarter. 

At  Fredericksburg  the  court  s])ends  most  of 
its  time  in  stag-hunting,  for  there  are  few 
fallow-deer  in  Denmai'k ;  during  which  sport 
the  king  allows  great  freedom  to  his  domestics 
and  ministers,  who  commonly  do  all  accompany 
him  wherever  he  goes;  insomuch  that  he 
seems  to  lay  aside  all  majesty  and  the  for- 
malities of  it  for  that  season;  they  eat  and 
drink  together,  the  latter  something  to  excess, 
after  a  hard  day's  hunting ;  when,  as  soon  as 
dinner  is  done  they  adjourn  to  the  wine-cellar. 
About  five  or  six  in  the  afternoon  the  hunting 
assizes  are  solemnly  held  in  the  great  court 
before  the  palace,  the  stag  is  drawn  into  the 
midst  of  it  by  the  huntsmen,  who  are  all  clothed 
in  red,  having  their  great  brass  hunting-horns 
about  their  necks;  and  'tis  there  broken  up 
with  great  ceremony,  whilst  the  hounds  attend 
with  much  noise  and  impatience.  One  that  is 
likely  to  give  a  good  gratuity  to  the  huntsmen 
is  invited  to  take  essay,  and  presented  with 
the  deer's  foot.  Then  proclamation  is  made, 
if  any  can  inform  the  king  (who  is  both  su- 
preme judge  and  executioner)  of  any  trans- 
gression against  the  known  laws  of  hunting 
that  day  committed,  let  him  stand  forth  and 
accuse ;  the  accused  is  generally  found  guilty, 
and  then  two  of  the  gentlemen  lead  him  to  the 
stag  and  make  him  kneel  down  between  the 
horns,  turning  down  his  head  with  his  buttocks 
up,  and  remove  the  skirts  of  his  coat,  which 
might  intercept  the  blows.  Then  comes  his 
majesty,  and  with  a  small  long  wand  gives  the 
offender  some  lashes  on  his  posteriors,  whilst 
in  the  meantime  the  huntsmen,  with  their 
brass  horns,  and  the  dogs  with  their  loud 
openings,  proclaim  the  king's  justice  and  the 
crirainal's  punishment.  The  whole  scene  afford- 
ing diversion  to  the  queen,  ladies,  and  other 
spectators,  who  are  always  assisting  and  stand 
in  a  circle  about  the  place  of  execution.  This 
is  as  often  repeated  as  theie  happen  to  be  delin- 
quents ;  who  JUS  soon  as  the  chastisement  is  over 
rise  up  and  make  their  obeisance — 

Proudly  boasting 
Of  their  magnificent  rib  roasting. 


After  all  is  done  the  hounds  are  permitted  to 
fall  to  and  eat  the  deer. 

At  another  season  swan-hunting  is  the  royal 
pastime ;  the  wild  swans  haunt  a  certain  small 
island  not  far  from  Copenhagen,  and  breed 
there;  about  the  time  that  the  young  ones 
are  near  as  big  as  the  old,  before  their  feathers 
are  long  enough  to  fly,  the  king,  with  the 
queen,  ladies,  and  others  of  the  court,  go  to 
the  killing  of  them ;  the  foreign  ministers  are 
usually  invited  to  take  part  in  this  sport. 
Every  peraon  of  condition  has  a  pinnace 
allotted  to  him,  and  when  they  come  near  the 
haunt  they  surround  the  place,  and  inclose  a 
great  multitude  of  young  swans,  which  they 
destroy  with  guns  till  they  have  killed  some 
thousands.  What  is  killed  by  the  whole  com- 
pany is  brought  to  the  court,  which  challenges 
the  feathers  and  down  of  these  birds,  the  flesh 
of  them  being  good  for  nothing. 

On  Shrove  Tuesday  the  king,  queen,  royal 
family,  home  and  foreign  ministers,  and  all 
the  other  pei-sons  above  mentioned  that  usu- 
ally compose  the  court,  clothe  themselves  in 
the  habit  of  the  North  Holland  boors,  with 
great  trunk  hose,  short  doublets,  and  large 
blue  thrum  caps;  the  ladies  in  blue  petticoats 
and  odd  head-dresses.  Thus  accoutred  they 
get  up  in  their  waggons,  a  man  before  and  a 
woman  behind,  which  they  drive  themselves, 
and  go  to  a  country  village  called  Amak,  about 
three  English  miles  from  town;  here  they 
dance  to  bagpipes  and  squeaking  fiddles,  and 
have  a  country  dinner,  which  they  eat  out  of 
earthen  and  wooden  platters,  with  wooden 
spoons,  and  having  passed  the  day  in  these 
divertisements,  where  all  are  equal,  and  little 
regard  had  to  majesty  or  other  quality,  at 
night  they  drive  in  like  manner  home  again,  and 
are  entertained  at  a  comedy  and  magnificent 
supper  by  the  Viceroy  Guldenbien,  spending 
the  remainder  of  the  night  in  dancing  in  the 
same  habits,  which  they  put  not  off  all  that  day. 

Every  winter,  as  soon  as  the  snow  is  firm 
enough  to  bear,  the  Danes  take  great  delight 
in  going  in  sleds,  the  king  and  court  first 
giving  the  example,  and  making  several  tours 
about  the  town  in  great  pomp,  with  kettle- 
drums and  trumpets,  the  horses  which  draw 
the  sleds  being  richly  adorned  with  trappings, 
and  harness  full  of  small  bells  to  give  warning 
to  such  as  stand  in  the  way.  After  the  court 
has  been  abroad  the  burghers  and  others  trot 
about  the  streets  all  night,  wrapped  uj)  in  their 
fur  gowns,  with  each  his  female  in  the  sled 
with  him ;  and  this  they  esteem  a  great  and 
pleasant  jiastime. 


SUSANNA  CENTLIVRE. 


43 


SUSANNA    CENTLIVRE. 


BouN  1667  —  Died  1723. 


[Susanna   Centlivre,    originally    Freeman, 
was  born  in  Ireland,  it  is  believed  in  the  year 
16G7.     Her  early  life  was  an  unpleasant  one, 
and  on  the  death  of  her  mother,  being,  as 
she  thought,   badly  treated,  she   ran  away 
from  home  while  yet  a  girl.     Then,  as  now, 
London  was  the  goal  for  such  minds  as  hers, 
and  towards  that  city  she  travelled  as  best 
she  might,  now  on  foot,  now  getting  a  lift 
from  some  kind  teamster.     Before  reaching 
London  she  met,  among  other  travellers,  a 
Mr.  Hammond,  who  became  deeply  interested 
in  her  appearance  and  story.  Being  a  student 
at  Cambridge  he  hardly  knew  how  to  assist 
her,  but  after  a  time  he  persuaded  her  to  as- 
sume boy's  clothing;  and  in  this  disguise  he 
sheltered  her  at  college  for  several  months. 
At  the  end  of  these  months,  being  better  able 
to  provide  help  for  her,  he  sent  her  on  to 
London,  where,  in  a  short  time,  before  pass- 
ing out  of  her  sixteenth  year,  she  married  a 
nephew  of  Sir  Stephen  Fox.     Her  married 
happiness  was  short-lived,  for  within  a  twelve- 
month her  husband  died,  and  she  was  again 
thrown  on  the  world.    However,  before  long 
she  took  for  second  husband  an  officer  of  the 
army  named  Carrol;  but  again,  in  short  time, 
she  was  left  a  widow,  her  husband  being  killed 
in  a  duel  before  they  had  been  quite  two  years 
married.    This  event  reduced  her  to  extreme 
poverty,  and  after  trying  many  ways  of  earn- 
ing a  living,  she  at  last  became  a  dramatic 
writer.  Her  first  attempt  was  a  tragedy  called 
The  Perjured  Husband,  which  was  produced 
in  1700  with  reasonable  success.     This,  how- 
ever, gave  her  the  idea  that  tragedy  was  not 
her  line,  and  taking  the  hint  she  produced  in 
rapid  succession  several  comedies,  translations 
from  the  French,  but  marked  sufficiently  by 
her  own  individuality  to  be  looked  upon  as 
almost  original  work.     At  the  same  time  she 
took  to  the  stage  as  an  actress,  being  hand- 
some, sprightly,  and  agreeable,  and  in  1706, 
while  acting  the  part  of  Alexander  the  Great, 
Joseph  Centlivre,  yeoman  to  the  queen,  fell 
in  love  with  her  and  became  her  third  hus- 
band. 

After  this  she  left  the  stage  as  an  actress, 
but  continued  to  write  for  it;  and  produced 
her  three  best  plays,  The  Busybody,  The  Won- 
der, and  A  Bold  Stroke  for  a  Wife.    She  also 


became  known  and  appreciated  by  Steele, 
Rowe,  and  Farquhar.  She  died  at  her  hus- 
band's house  in  Spring  Gardens  in  1723, 
having  written  in  all  some  fifteen  plays.] 


THE   BUSYBODY.i 

Scene,  the  Park.     Sir  George  Airet  aivi 
Charles  talking. 

Enter  Marplot,  with  a  patch  across  his  face. 

Mar.  Dear  Charles,  yours.  Ha !  Sir  George 
Airey !  the  man  in  the  world  I  have  an  ambi- 
tion to  be  known  to.  {Aside.)  Give  me  thy 
hand,  dear  boy.  {To  Charles. 

Chas.  A  good  assurance!  But,  harkye— 
how  came  your  beautiful  countenance  clouded 
in  the  wrong  place? 

Mar.  I  must  confess  'tis  a  little  mal-a-pro- 
pos;  but  no  matter  for  that.  A  word  with 
you,  Charles.  Pr'ythee  introduce  me  to  Sir 
George — he  is  a  man  of  wit;  and  I'd  give 
ten  guineas  to — 

Chas.  When  you  have  them,  you  mean. 

Mar.  Ay  ;  when  I  have  them;  poh,  plague, 

you  cut  the  thread  of  my  discourse.    I  would 

give  ten  guineas,  I  say,  to  be  ranked  in  his 

acquaintance.     But,  pr'ythee,  introduce  me. 

Chas.  Well;  on  condition  you'll  give  us  a 
true  account  how  you  came  by  that  mourn- 
ing nose,  I  will. 
Mar.  I'll  do  it. 

Chas.  Sir  George,  here's  a  gentleman  has 
a  passionate  desire  to  kiss  your  hand. 

Sir  G.  {Advancing.)  Oh,  I  honour  men  of 
the  sword;  and  I  presume  this  gentleman  is 
lately  come  from  Spain  or  Portugal  by  his 
scars. 

Mar.  No,  really,  Sir  George;  mine  sprung 
from  civil  fury.  Happening,  last  night,  to 
step  into  the  groom-porter's,  I  had  a  strong 
inclination  to  go  ten  guineas  with  a  sort  of  a 
—sort  of  a— kind  of  a  milksop,  as  I  thought. 
A  plague  of  the  dice !  He  flung  out;  and  my 
pockets  being  empty,  as  Charles  knows  they 
often  are,  he  proved  a  surly  North  Briton, 
and  broke  my  face  for  my  deficiency. 
Sir  G.  Ha,  ha!  and  did  not  you  draw? 
Mar.  Draw,  sir !  Why,  I  did  but  lay  my 
hand  upon  my  sword  to  make  a  swift  retreat, 


1  This  and  the  next  scene  are  from  The  Busybody. 


44 


SUSANNA  CENTLIVEE. 


and  he  roared  out,  "  Now  the  deel  of  ma  savd, 
sir,  gin  ye  touch  yer  steel,  I  se  whip  mine 
through  yer  wem." 

Sir  G.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Chas.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha !  Safe  was  the  word. 
So  you  walked  otf,  I  suppose. 

Mar.  Yes;  for  I  avoid  fighting,  purely  to  be 
serviceable  to  my  friends,  you  know. 

Sir  G.  Your  friends  are  much  obliged  to 
you,  sir.  I  hope  you  will  rank  me  in  that 
number. 

Mar.  Sir  George,  a  bow  from  the  side-box, 
or  to  be  seen  in  your  chariot,  binds  me  ever 
yours. 

Sir  G.  Trifles;  you  may  command  them 
when  you  please. 

Chas.  Provided  he  may  command  you. 

Mar.  Me !  Why,  I  live  for  no  other  pur- 
pose. Sir  George,  I  have  the  honour  to  be 
caressed  by  most  of  the  reigning  toasts  of  the 
town.  I'll  tell  them  you  are  the  finest  gentle- 
man— 

Sir  G.  No,  no,  pr'ythee ;  let  me  alone  to  teU 
the  ladies  my  parts.  Can  you  convey  a  letter 
upon  occasion,  or  deliver  a  message  with  an 
air  of  business — ha? 

Mar.  With  the  assurance  of  a  page  and  the 
gravity  of  a  statesman. 

Sir  G.  You  know  Miranda? 

Mar.  What,  my  sister- ward !  Why,  her 
giiardian  is  mine ;  we  are  fellow-sufferers. 
Ah !  he  is  a  covetous,  cheating,  sanctified  cur- 
mudgeon. That  Sir  Francis  Gripe  is  a  d — d 
old — hypocritical — 

Chas.  Hold,  hold ;  I  suppose,  friend,  you 
forget  that  he  is  my  father. 

Mar.  I  ask  your  pardon,  Charles ;  but  it  is 
for  your  sake  I  hate  him.  Well,  I  say,  the 
world  is  mistaken  in  him ;  his  outside  piety 
makes  him  every  man's  executor,  and  his  in- 
side cunning  makes  him  every  heir's  jailer. 
Egad,  Charles,  I'm  half  persuaded  that  thou 
art  some  ward  too,  and  never  of  his  getting ; 
for  never  were  two  things  so  unlike  as  you  and 
your  father;  he  scrapes  up  everything,  and  thou 
spendest  everything;  everybody  is  indebted  to 
him,  and  thou  art  indebted  to  everybody. 

Chas.  You  are  very  free,  Mr.  Marplot. 

Mar.  Ay;  I  give  and  take,  Charles;  you 
may  be  as  free  with  me,  you  know. 

Sir  G.  A  plea.sant  fellow. 

Chas.  The  dog  is  diverting  sometimes,  or 
there  would  be  no  enduring  his  impertinence. 
He  is  pressing  to  be  employed,  and  willing  to 
execute ;  but  some  ill  fate  generally  attends 
all  he  undertakes,  and  he  oftener  s^joUs  an  in- 
trigue than  helps  it. 


MABPLOT'S   CLEVERNESS. 

Sir  George  and  Miranda  together. 
Enter  Scentwell. 

Scent.  Oh,  madam !  my  master  and  Mr. 
Marplot  are  both  coming  into  the  house. 

Mir.  Undone,  undone !  If  he  finds  you  here 
in  this  crisis,  all  my  plots  are  unravelled. 

Sir  G.  What  shall  I  do?  Can't  I  get  back 
into  the  garden  ? 

Scent.  Oh,  no ;  he  comes  up  those  stairs. 

Mir.  Here,  here,  here !  Can  you  condescend 
to  stand  behind  this  chimney -board,  Sir 
George  ? 

Sir  G.  Anywhere,  anywhere,  dear  madam, 
without  ceremony. 

Scent.  Come,  come,  sir;  lie  close. 

\They  put  him  behind  the  chimney-board. 

Enter  Sir  Francis  Gripe  and  Marplot, 
Sir  Francis  peeling  an  orange. 

Sir  F.  I  could  not  go,  though  'tis  upon  life 
and  death,  without  taking  leave  of  dear  chargy. 
Besides,  this  feUow  buzzed  in  my  ears  that 
thou  mightst  be  so  desperate  as  to  shoot  that 
wild  rake  that  haunts  the  garden  gate,  and 
that  would  bring  us  into  trouble,  dear. 

Mir.  So  Marplot  brought  you  back,  then  ? 

Mar.  Yes;  I  brought  him  back. 

Mir.  I'm  obliged  to  him  for  that,  I'm  sure. 
[^Frowning  at  Marplot  aside. 

Mar.  By  her  looks,  she  means  she's  not 
obliged  to  me.  I  have  done  some  mischief 
now,  but  what  I  can't  imagine.  [Aside. 

Sir  F.  Well,  chargy,  I  have  had  three  mes- 
sengers to  come  to  Epsom  to  my  neighbour 
Squeezum's,  who,  for  all  his  vast  riches,  is  de- 
parting. [Sighs. 

Mar.  Ay,  see  what  all  you  usurers  must 
come  to. 

Sir  F.  Peace,  you  young  knave !  Some 
forty  years  hence  I  may  think  on't;  but, 
chargy,  I'll  be  with  thee  to-morrow  before 
those  pretty  eyes  are  open.  I  will,  I  will, 
chargy.  I'll  rouse  you,  i'faith.  Here,  Mrs. 
Scentwell,  lift  up  your  lady's  chimney-board, 
that  I  may  throw  my  peel  in,  and  not  litter 
her  chamber. 

Mir.  Oh,  my  stai's !  What  will  become  of 
us  now?  [Aside. 

Scent.  Oh,  pray,  sir,  give  it  me;  I  love  it 
above  all  things  in  nature;  indeed  I  do. 

Sir  F.  No,  no,  hussy;  you  have  the  gi-een 
pip  already.     I'll  have  no  apothecai-y's  bills. 
[Goes  towards  the  chimney. 


SUSANNA  CENTLIVRE. 


46 


Mir.  Hold,  hold,  hold,  dear  guardy!  I  have 
a — a — a  monkey  shut  up  tliere;  and  if  you 
open  it  before  the  man  comes  that  is  to  tame 
it,  'tis  so  wild,  'twill  break  all  my  china,  or 
get  away,  and  that  would  break  my  heart;  for 
I'm  fond  on't  to  distraction,  next  thee,  dear 
guardy.  \_In  a  flattering  tone. 

Sir  F.  Well,  well,  chargy,  I  won't  open  it. 
She  shall  have  her  monkey,  poor  rogue!  Here, 
throw  this  peel  out  of  the  window. 

\Exit  Scentwell. 

Mar.  A  monkey!  Dear  madam,  let  me  see 
it.  I  can  tame  a  monkey  as  well  as  the  best 
of  them  all.  Oh,  how  I  love  the  little  minia- 
tures of  man  ! 

Mir.  Be  quiet,  mischief ;  and  stand  further 
from  the  chimney.  You  shall  not  see  my 
monkey — who,  sure, —         [Striving  with  him. 

Mar.  For  heaven's  sake,  dear  madam,  let 
me  but  peep,  to  see  if  it  be  as  pretty  as  Lady 
Fiddlefaddle's.     Has  it  got  a  chain  ? 

Mir.  Not  yet ;  but  I  design  it  one  shall  last 
its  lifetime.  Nay,  you  shall  not  see  it.  Look, 
guardy,  how  he  teazes  me  ? 

Sir  F.  {Getting  beticeen  him  and  the  chimney.) 
Sirrah,  sirrah,  let  my  chargy's  monkey  alone, 
or  my  bamboo  shall  fly  about  your  ears. 
What,  is  there  no  dealing  with  you  ] 

Mar.  Pugh!  plague  of  the  monkey!  Here's 
a  rout !     I  wish  he  may  rival  you. 

Enter  Servant. 

Ser.  Sir,  tliey  have  put  two  more  horses  to 
the  coach,  as  you  ordered,  and  'tis  ready  at  the 
door. 

Sir  F.  Well,  I  am  going  to  be  executor; 
better  for  thee,  jewel.  B'ye,  chargy.  One 
buss.  I'm  glad  thou  hast  got  a  monkey  to 
divert  thee  a  little. 

Mir.  Thankye,  dear  guardy!  Nay,  I'll  see 
you  to  the  coach. 

Sir  F.  That's  kind,  adad  ! 

Mir.  Come  along,  impertinence  ! 

[To  Marplot. 

Mar.  {Stepping  hack.)  Egad,  I  will  see  the 
monkey  now.  {Lifts  up  the  hoard,  and  dis- 
covers Sir  George. )  Oh,  loi'd !  oh,  lord ! 
Thieves,  thieves  !     Murder  ! 

Sir  G.  D — n  ye,  you  unlucky  dog !  'Tis  T. 
Which  way  shall  I  get  out?  Show  me  in- 
stantly, or  I'll  cut  your  throat. 

Mar.  Undone,  undone  !  At  that  door  there. 
But,  hold,  hold !  Break  that  china,  and  I'U 
bring  you  off. 

[He  runs  off  at  tlie  corner,  and  throws 
doivn  some  china. 


Re-enter  Sir  Francis  Gripe,  Miranda, 
and  Scentwell. 

Sir  F.  Mercy  on  me  !     What's  the  matter? 

Mir.  Oh,  you  toad  !     What  have  you  donel 

Mar.  No  great  harm.  I  beg  of  you  to  for- 
give me.  Longing  to  see  this  monkey,  I  did 
but  just  raise  up  the  board,  and  it  flew  over 
my  shoulders,  scratched  all  my  face,  broke 
your  china,  and  whisked  out  of  the  window. 

Sir  F.  Where— where  is  it,  sirrah  ? 

Mar.  There — there.  Sir  Francis — upon  your 
neighbour  Parmazan's  pantiles. 

Sir  F.  Was  ever  such  an  unlucky  rogue? 
Sirrah,  I  forbid  you  my  house.  Call  the  ser- 
vants to  get  the  monkey  again.  Pug,  pug, 
pug !  I  would  stay  myself  to  look  for  it,  but 
you  know  my  earnest  business. 

Scent.  Oh,  my  lady  will  be  best  to  lure  it 
back.  All  them  creatures  love  my  lady  ex- 
tremely. 

Mir.  Go,  go,  dear  guardy !  I  hope  I  shall 
recover  it. 

Sir  F.  B'ye,  b'ye,  dearee !  Ah,  mischief, 
how  you  look  now  !     B'ye,  b'ye !  [Exit. 

Mir.  Scentwell,  see  him  in  the  coach,  and 
bring  me  word. 


MISS   LOVELY  AND   HER   GUARDIANS, 

(from  "a  bold  stroke  for  a  wife.") 

[Miss  Lovely,  an  heiress.  Her  father,  a 
whimsical  character,  left  her  thirty  thousand 
pounds  provided  she  married  with  the  consent 
of  her  guardians;  but  to  prevent  her  ever 
doing  so  he  left  her  in  the  care  of  four  men  of 
opposite  natures  and  tastes,  and  she  is  obliged 
to  reside  three  months  of  the  year  with  each 
of  them.  She  just  now  resides  with  the 
Quaker,  Mr.  Prim.] 

Enter  Mrs.  Prim,  and  Miss  Lovely  in  a 
Quaker's  dress. 

Mrs.  P.  So,  now  I  like  thee,  Anne.  Art 
thou  not  better  without  thy  monstrous  vani- 
ties and  patches?  If  heaven  should  make 
thee  so  many  black  spots  upon  thy  face,  would 
it  not  fright  thee,  Anne  ? 

Miss  L.  If  it  should  turn  you  inside  out- 
ward, and  show  all  the  spots  of  your  hypocrisy, 
'twould  fright  me  worse  ! 

Mrs.  P.  My  hypocrisy  !  I  scorn  thy  words, 
Aime ;  I  lay  no  baits. 

Miss  L.  If  you  did,  you'd  catch  no  fish. 

Mrs.  P.  Well,  well,  make  thy  jests ;  but  I'd 
have  thee  to  know,  Anne,  that  I  could  have 


46 


SUSANNA  CENTLIVRE, 


catched  as  many  fish  (as  thou  callest  them)  in 
my  time,  as  ever  thou  didst  with  all  thy  fool- 
traps  about  thee. 

Miss  L.  Is  that  the  reason  of  your  formality, 
Mi-s.  Prim?  Truth  will  out ;  I  ever  thought, 
indeed,  there  was  more  design  than  godliness 
in  the  pinched  cap. 

Mrs.  P.  Go ;  thou  art  corrupted  with  read- 
ing lewd  plays  and  filthy  romances  !  Ah !  I 
wish  thou  art  not  already  too  familiar  with 
the  wicked  ones. 

Miss  L.  Too  familiar  with  the  wicked  ones! 
Pray,  no  more  of  these  freedoms,  madam.  I 
am  familiar  with  none  so  wicked  as  yourself ; 
how  dare  you  thus  talk  to  me,  you — you — 
you,  unworthy  woman,  you — 

[Bursts  into  tears. 

Enter  Tradelove,  otic  of  Miss  Lovely's 
guardians. 

Trade.  What,  in  tears,  Nancy?  "What 
have  you  done  to  her,  Mi's.  Prim,  to  make  her 
weep? 

Miss  L.  Done  to  me  ?  I  admire  I  keep  my 
senses  among  you ;  but  I  wiU  rid  myself  of 
your  tyranny,  if  there  be  either  law  or  justice 
to  be  had.  I'll  force  you  to  give  me  up  my 
liberty. 

Mrs.  P.  Thou  hast  more  need  to  weep  for 
thy  sins,  Anne ;  yea,  for  thy  manifold  sins. 

Miss  L.  Don't  think  that  I'll  be  still  the  fool 
which  you  have  made  me.  No ;  I'll  wear  what 
I  please ;  go  when  and  where  I  please ;  and 
keep  what  company  I  think  fit,  and  not  what 
you  shall  direct, — I  will. 

Trade.  For  my  part,  I  do  think  all  this  very 
reasonable,  Miss  Lovely.  'Tis  fit  you  should 
have  your  liberty,  and  for  that  very  purpose  I 
am  come. 

Enter  Periwinkle  and  Obadiah  Prim,  two 
other  guardians. 

Obad.  What  art  thou  in  the  dumps  for, 
Anne  ? 

Trade.  We  must  marry  her,  Mr.  Prim. 

Obad.  Why,  truly,  if  we  could  find  a  hus- 
band worth  having,  I  should  be  as  glad  to  see 
her  married  as  thou  wouldst,  neighbour. 

Per.  Well  sjiid,  there  are  but  few  worth 
having. 

Trade.  I  can  recommend  you  a  man  now, 
that  I  think  you  can  none  of  you  have  an  objec- 
tion to. 

Enter  Sir  Philip  Modelove,  another 
guardian. 
Per.  You  recommend  ?     Nay,  whenever  she 
marries,  I'll  recommend  the  husband. 


Sir  P.  What,  must  it  be  a  whale,  or  a  rhin- 
oceros, Mr.  Periwinkle  ?     Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Per.  He  shall  be  none  of  the  fops  at  your 
end  of  the  town,  with  mop-heads  and  empty 
skulls;  nor  yet  any  of  our  trading  gentry, 
who  puzzle  the  heralds  to  find  arms  for  their 
coaches.  No ;  he  shall  be  a  man  famous  for 
travels,  solidity,  and  curiosity ;  one  who  has 
searched  into  the  profundity  of  nature ;  when 
heaven  shall  direct  such  a  one,  he  shall  have 
my  consent,  because  it  may  turn  to  the  benefit 
of  mankind. 

Miss  L.  The  benefit  of  mankind !  What, 
would  you  anatomize  me? 

Sir  P.  Ay,  ay,  madam ;  he  would  dissect 
you. 

Trade.  Or  pore  over  you  through  a  micro- 
scope, to  see  how  your  blood  circulates  from 
the  crown  of  your  head  to  the  sole  of  your 
foot — ha,  ha !  But  I  have  a  husband  for  you, 
a  man  that  knows  how  to  improve  your  for- 
tune ;  one  that  trades  to  the  four  corners  of 
the  globe. 

Miss  L.  And  would  send  me  for  a  venture, 
perhaps. 

Trade.  One  that  wiU  dress  you  in  all  the 
pride  of  Europe,  Asia,  Africa,  and  America ;  a 
Dutch  merchant,  my  girl. 

Sir  P.  A  Dutchman !  Ha,  ha !  there's  a 
husband  for  a  fine  lady.  Ya  frow,  will  you 
meet  myn  slapen — ha,  ha!  He'll  learn  you 
to  talk  the  language  of  the  hogs,  madam — 
ha,  ha ! 

Trade.  He'll  teach  you  that  one  merchant 
is  of  more  service  to  a  nation  than  fifty  cox- 
combs. 'Tis  the  merchant  makes  the  belle. 
How  would  the  ladies  sparkle  in  the  box 
without  the  merchant?  The  Indian  diamond; 
the  French  brocade ;  the  Italian  fan ;  the 
Flanders  lace  ;  the  fine  Dutch  holland.  How 
would  they  vent  their  scandal  over  their  tea- 
tables?  And  where  would  your  beaux  have 
champagne  to  toast  their  mistresses,  were  it 
not  for  the  merchant? 

Obad.  Verily,  neighbour  Tradelove,  thou 
dost  waste  thy  breath  about  nothing.  All 
that  thou  hast  said  tendeth  only  to  debauch 
youth,  and  fill  their  heads  with  the  pride  and 
luxury  of  this  world.  The  merchant  is  a  very 
great  friend  to  Satan,  and  sendeth  as  many  to 
his  dominions  as  the  pope. 

Per.  Right;  I  say,  knowledge  makes  the 
man. 

Obad.  Yea,  but  not  thy  kind  of  knowledge; 
it  is  the  knowledge  of  truth.  Search  thou  for 
the  light  within,  and  not  for  baubles,  friend. 

Miss  L.    Ah!    study  your  country's  good, 


SUSANNA  CENTLIVRE. 


47 


"Mr.  Periwinkle,  and  not  her  insects.  Rid  you 
of  your  homebred  monstera  before  you  fetch 
any  from  abroad.  I  dare  swear,  you  have 
maggots  enough  in  your  own  brain  to  stock  all 
the  virtuosos  in  Europe  with  butterflies. 

Sir  P.  By  my  soid  !  Miss  Nancy's  a  wit. 

Obad.  That  is  more  than  she  can  say  of  thee, 
friend.  Lookye,  'tis  in  vain  to  talk ;  when  I 
meet  a  man  worthy  of  her,  she  shall  have  my 
leave  to  marry  him. 

Miss  L.  Provided  he  be  of  the  faithful.  Was 
there  ever  such  a  swarm  of  caterpillars  to 
blast  the  hopes  of  a  woman  !  (Aside.)  Know 
this,  that  you  contend  in  vain ;  I'll  have  no 
husband  of  your  choosing,  nor  shall  you  lord 
it  over  me  long.  I'll  try  the  power  of  an 
English  senate.  Orphans  have  been  redressed, 
and  wills  set  aside,  and  none  did  ever  deserve 
their  pity  more.  Oh,  Feignwell !  where  are 
thy  promises  to  free  me  from  those  vermin  ? 
Alas !  the  task  was  more  difficult  than  he  im- 
agined. [Aside. 

A  harder  task  than  what  the  poets  tell 
Of  yore  the  fair  Andromeda  befell ; 
She  but  one  monster  fear'd,  I've  four  to  fear, 
And  see  no  Perseus,  no  deUv'rer  near. 

[This  is  how  Colonel  Feignwell,  Miss  Lovely's 
lover,  managed  to  gain  the  consent  of  Mr.  Peri- 
winkle, the  vu'tuoso : — ] 

A  Tavern. 

Col.  Feignwell  is  discovered  in  an  Egyptian 
dress,  with  Sackbut  the  landlord. 

Sac.  A  lucky  beginning.  Colonel;  you  have 
got  the  old  beau's  consent. 

Col.  F.  Ay,  he's  a  reasonable  creature ;  but 
the  other  three  will  require  some  pains.  Shall 
I  pass  upon  him,  think  you?  Egad,  in  my 
mind  I  look  as  antique  as  if  I  had  been  pre- 
served in  the  ark. 

Sa£.  Pass  upon  him ;  ay,  ay,  if  you  have 
assurance  enough. 

Col.  F.  I  have  no  apprehension  from  that 
quarter;  assurance  is  the  cockade  of  a  soldier. 

Sac.  Ay,  but  the  assurance  of  a  soldier  dif- 
fers much  from  that  of  a  traveller.  Can  you 
lie  with  a  good  grace  ? 

Col.  F.  As  heartily,  when  my  mistress  is  the 
prize,  as  I  would  meet  the  foe  when  my  coun- 
try called  and  king  commanded ;  so  don't  you 
fear  that  part.  If  he  don't  know  me  again, 
I  am  safe.     I  hope  he'll  come. 

Sac.  I  wish  all  my  debts  would  come  as 
sure.  I  told  him  you  had  been  a  great  tra- 
veller, had  many  valuable  curiosities,  and  was 


a  person  of  most  singular  taste;  he  seemed 
transported,  and  begged  me  to  keep  you  till 
he  came. 

Col.  F.  Ay,  ay,  he  need  not  fear  my  running 
away.  Let's  have  a  bottle  of  sack,  landlord ; 
our  ancestors  drank  sack. 

Sac.  You  shall  have  it. 

Col.  F.  And  whereabouts  is  the  trap-door 
you  mentioned? 

Sac.  There  is  the  conveyance,  sir.        [Exit. 

Col.  F.  Now,  if  I  could  cheat  all  these 
roguish  guardians,  and  carry  off  my  mistress 
in  triumph,  it  would  be  what  the  French  call 
a  grand  coup  d^ eclat.  Odso  !  here  comes  Peri- 
winkle. Ah !  deuce  take  this  beard ;  pray 
Jupiter  it  does  not  give  me  the  slip  and  spoil 
aU. 

Enter  Sackbut  with  wine,  and  Periwinkle 
following. 

Sac.  Sir,  this  gentleman,  hearing  you  have 
been  a  great  traveller,  and  a  person  of  fine 
speculation,  begs  leave  to  take  a  glass  with 
you;  he  is  a  man  of  curious  taste  himself. 

Col.  F.  The  gentleman  has  it  in  his  face  and 
garb.     Sir,  you  are  welcome. 

Per.  Sir,  I  honour  a  traveller  and  men  of 
your  inquiring  disposition;  the  oddness  of  your 
habit  pleases  me  extremely;  'tis  very  antique, 
and  for  that  I  like  it. 

Col.  F.  'Tis  very  antique,  sir.  This  habit 
once  belonged  to  the  famous  Claudius  Ptole- 
meus,  who  lived  in  the  year  one  hundred  and 
thirty-five. 

Sac.  If  he  keeps  up  to  the  sample,  he  shall 
lie  with  the  devil  for  a  bean-stack,  and  win  it 
every  straw.  [Aside. 

Per.  A  hundred  and  thirty -five!  Why, 
that's  prodigious,  now !  Well,  certainly,  'tis 
the  finest  thing  in  the  world  to  be  a  traveller. 

Col.  F.  For  my  part,  I  value  none  of  the 
modern  fashions  a  fig-leaf. 

Per.  No  more  don't  I,  sir;  I  had  rather  be 
the  jest  of  a  fool  than  his  favourite.  I  am 
laughed  at  here  for  my  singularity.  This 
coat,  you  must  know,  sir,  was  formerly  worn 
by  that  ingenious  and  very  learned  person, 
Mr.  John  Tradescant,  of  Lambeth. 

Col.  F.  John  Tradescant !  Let  me  embrace 
you,  sir.  John  Tradescant  was  my  uncle,  by 
my  mother's  side;  and  I  thank  you  for  the 
honour  you  do  his  memory.  He  was  a  very 
curious  man  indeed. 

Per.  Your  uncle,  sir !  Nay,  then,  'tis  no 
wonder  that  your  taste  is  so  refined;  why, 
you  have  it  in  your  blood.  My  humble  ser- 
vice to  you,  sir.     To  the  immortiil  memory  of 


48 


SUSANNA  CENTLIVEE. 


John  Tradescant,  your  never-to-be-forgotten 
uncle.  [D7-inh. 

Col.  F.  Give  me  a  glass,  landlord. 

Per.  I  find  you  are  primitive,  even  in  your 
wine.  Canary  vs'as  the  drink  of  our  wise  fore- 
fathers; 'tis  balsamic,  and  saves  the  charge  of 
ajjothecaries'  cordials.  Oh  that  I  had  lived 
in  your  uncle's  days !  or  rather,  that  he  were 
now  alive  !  Oh  how  proud  he'd  be  of  such  a 
nephew !  A  person  of  your  curiosity  must 
have  collected  many  rarities. 

Col.  F.  I  have  some,  sir,  which  are  not  yet 
come  ashore — as  an  Egyptian  idol. 

Per.  Pray  what  may  that  be  ? 

Col.  F.  It  is,  sir,  a  kind  of  an  ape,  which 
they  formerly  worshipped  in  that  country; 
I  took  it  from  the  breast  of  a  female  mummy; 
two  tusks  of  an  hippopotamus,  two  pairs  of 
Chinese  nut-crackers,  and  one  Egyptian  mum- 
my. 

Per.  Pray,  sir,  have  you  never  a  crocodile  ? 

Col.  F.  Humph !  the  boatswain  brought  one 
with  a  design  to  show  it;  but  touching  at 
Rotterdam,  and  hearing  it  was  no  rarity  in 
England,  he  sold  it  to  a  Dutch  poet.  Lookye, 
sir,  do  you  see  this  little  phial? 

Per.  Pray  you,  what  is  it? 

Col.  F.  This  is  called  Poluflosboio. 

Per.  Poluflosboio !  It  has  a  rumbling 
sound. 

Col.  F.  Eight,  sir ;  it  proceeds  from  a  rum- 
bling nature.  This  water  was  part  of  those 
waves  which  bore  Cleopatra's  vessel  when  she 
sailed  to  meet  Antony. 

Per.  Well,  of  all  that  travelled,  none  had  a 
taste  like  you. 

Col.  F.  But  here's  the  wonder  of  the  world. 
This,  sir,  is  called  zona,  or  moros  musphonon; 
the  virtues  of  this  are  inestimable. 

Per.  Moros  musphonon !  What,  in  the 
name  of  wisdom,  can  that  be  ?  To  me,  it  seems 
a  plain  belt. 

Col.  F.  This  girdle  has  carried  me  all  the 
world  over. 

Per.  You  have  carried  it,  you  mean. 

CoK  F.  I  mean  as  I  say,  sir.  Whenever  I 
am  girded  with  this,  I  am  invisible;  and,  by 
turning  this  little  screw,  can  be  in  the  court 
of  the  Great  Mogul,  the  Grand  Signior,  and 
King  George,  in  as  little  time  as  your  cook 
can  poach  an  egg. 

Per.  You  must  pardon  me,  sir;  I  can't  be- 
lieve it. 

Col.  F.  If  my  landlord  pleases,  he  shall  try 
the  experiment  immediately. 

Sac.  I  thank  you  kindly,  sir;  but  I  have  no 
inclination  to  ride  post  to  tlie  devil. 


Col.  F.  No,  no,  you  sha'n't  stir  a  foot ;  I'll 
only  make  you  invisible. 

Sctc.  But  if  you  could  not  make  me  visible 
again. 

Per.  Come,  try  it  upon  me,  sir;  I  am  not 
afraid  of  the  devil,  nor  all  his  tricks.  'Sbud, 
I'll  stand  'em  all. 

Col.  F.  There,  sir,  put  it  on.  Come,  land- 
lord, you  and  I  must  face  the  east.  {They 
turn  about.)     Is  it  on,  sii-? 

Per.  'Tis  on.  [They  turn  about  again. 

Sac.  Heaven  protect  me !  where  is  he  ? 

Per.  Why,  here,  just  where  I  was. 

Sac.  Wliere,  where,  in  the  name  of  virtue? 
Ah,  poor  Mr.  Periwinkle  !  Egad,  look  to't ; 
you  had  best,  sir;  and  let  him  be  seen  again,, 
or  I  shall  have  you  burnt  for  a  wizai'd. 

Col.  F.  Have  patience,  good  landlord. 

Per.  But,  reiilly,  don't  you  see  me  now? 

Sac.  No  more  than  I  see  my  grandmother, 
that  died  forty  years  ago. 

Per.  Are  you  sure  you  don't  lie  ?  Methinks 
I  stand  just  where  I  did,  and  see  you  as  plain 
as  I  did  before. 

Sac.  Ah !  I  wish  I  could  see  you  once  again. 

Col.  F.  Take  oflf  the  girdle,  sir. 

[He  takes  it  off. 

Sac.  Ah !  air,  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  with  all 
my  heart.  [Embraces  him. 

Per.  This  is  very  odd;  cei-tainly  there  must 
be  some  trick  in't.  Pray,  sir,  will  you  do  me 
the  favour  to  put  it  on  yourself? 

Col.  F.  With  all  my  heart. 

Per.  But,  first,  I'll  secure  the  door. 

Col.  F.  You  know  how  to  tui-n  the  screw,. 
Mr.  Sackbut. 

Sac.  Yes,  yes.  Come,  Mi*.  Periwinkle,  we 
must  turn  full  east. 

[They  turn;  the  Colonel  sinks  through 
the  trap-door. 

Col.  F.  'Tis  done ;  now  turn.      [They  turn. 

Per.  Ha !  mercy  upon  me ;  my  flesh  creeps 
upon  my  bones.  This  must  be  a  conjuror,. 
Mr.  Sackbut. 

Sac.  He's  the  devil,  I  think. 

Per.  Oh  !  Mr.  Sackbut,  why  do  you  name 
the  devil,  when  perhaps  he  may  be  at  your 
elbow  ? 

Sac.  At  my  elbow!     Marry,  heaven  forbid! 

Col.  F.  Are  you  satisfied  ? 

[^From  under  the  stage. 

Per.  Yes,  sir,  yes.  How  hollow  his  voice 
sounds ! 

Sac.  Yours  seemed  just  the  same.  'Faith, 
I  wi.sh  this  girdle  were  mine;  I'd  sell  wine  no 
more.  Harkye !  Mr.  Periwinkle  {takes  him 
aside  till  the  Colonel  rises  again),  if  he  would 


SUSANNA  CENTLIVEE. 


49 


sell  this  girdle,  you  might  travel  with  great 
expedition. 

Col.  F.  But  it  is  not  to  be  parted  with  for 
money. 

Per.  1  am  sorry  for't,  sir;  because  I  think 
it  the  greatest  curiosity  I  ever  heard  of. 

Col.  F.  By  the  advice  of  a  learned  physiog- 
nomist in  Grand  Cairo,  who  consulted  the 
lines  in  my  face,  I  returned  to  England,  where 
he  told  me  I  should  find  a  rarity  in  the  keep- 
ing of  four  men,  which  I  was  born  to  possess 
for  the  benefit  of  mankind;  and  the  first  of 
the  four  that  gave  me  his  consent,  I  should 
present  him  with  this  girdle.  Till  I  have 
found  this  jewel  I  shall  not  part  with  the 
girdle. 

Per.  What  can  this  rarity  be?  Didn't  he 
name  it  to  youl 

Col.  F.  Yes,  sir;  he  called  it  a  chaste,  beau- 
tiful, unaffected  woman. 

Per.  Pish !  women  are  no  rarities.  Women 
are  the  very  gewgaws  of  the  creation ;  play- 
things for  boys,  who,  when  they  write  man, 
they  ought  to  throw  aside. 

ISac.  A  fine  lecture  to  be  read  to  a  circle  of 
ladies!  {Aside. 

Per.  What  woman  is  there,  dressed  in  all 
the  pride  and  foppery  of  the  times,  can  boast 
of  such  a  foretop  as  the  cockatoo  ? 

Col.  F.  I  must  humour  him.  (Aside.)  Such 
a  skin  as  the  lizard  1 

Per.  Such  a  shining  breast  as  the  humming- 
bird? 

CoL  F.  Such  a  shape  as  the  antelope? 

Per.  Or,  in  all  the  ai'tful  mixture  of  their 
various  dresses,  have  they  half  the  beauty  of 
one  box  of  butterflies  ] 

Col.  F.  No ;  that  must  be  allowed.  For  my 
part,  if  it  were  not  for  the  benefit  of  mankind, 
I'd  have  nothing  to  do  with  them;  for  they 
are  as  indifferent  to  me  as  a  s])arrow  or  a 
flesh-fly. 

Per.  Pray,  sir,  what  benefit  is  the  world  to 
reap  from  this  lady  ? 

CoL  F.  Why,  sir,  she  is  to  bear  me  a  son, 
who  shall  revive  the  art  of  embalming,  and 
the  old  Roman  manner  of  burying  the  dead; 
and,  for  the  benefit  of  posterity,  he  is  to  dis- 
cover the  longitude,  so  long  sought  for  in 
vain. 

Per.  Od !  these  are  valuable  things,  Mr. 
Sackbut ! 

Sac.  He  hits  it  off  admirably;  and  t'other 
swallows  it  like  sack  and  sugar.  {Aside.)  Cer- 
tainly, this  lady  must  be  your  ward,  Mr. 
Periwinkle,  by  her  being  under  the  care  of 

four  persons. 
VOL.  I. 


Per.  By  the  description,  it  should.  Egad, 
if  I  could  get  that  girdle,  I'd  ride  with  the 
sun,  and  make  the  tour  of  the  world  in  four- 
and-twenty  hours.  {Aside.)  And  you  are  to 
give  that  girdle  to  the  first  of  the  four  guar- 
dians that  shall  give  his  consent  to  marry  that 
lady,  say  you,  sir? 

Col.  F.  I  am  so  ordered,  when  I  can  find 
him. 

Per.  I  fancy  I  know  the  very  woman;  her 
name  is  Anne  Lovely. 

Col.  F.  Excellent !  He  said,  indeed,  that 
the  first  letter  of  her  name  was  L. 

Per.  Did  he,  really?  Well,  that's  pro- 
digiously amazing,  that  a  person  in  Grand 
Cairo  should  know  anything  of  my  ward. 

Col.  F.  Your  ward  ? 

Per.  To  be  plain  with  you,  sir,  I  am  one  of 
those  four  guardians. 

Col.  F.  Ai-e  you,  indeed,  sir?  I  am  trans- 
ported to  find  that  the  very  man  who  is  to 
possess  this  moros  musphonou  is  a  person  of 
so  curious  a  taste.  Here  is  a  writing  drawn 
up  by  that  famous  Egyptian,  which,  if  you 
will  please  to  sign,  you  must  turn  your  face 
full  north,  and  the  girdle  is  yours. 

Per.  If  I  live  till  the  boy  is  born,  I'll  be 
embalmed,  and  sent  to  the  Royal  Society  when 
I  die. 

Col.  F.  That  you  shall,  most  certainly. 

[Colonel  Feignwell  learns  the  weak  point  in 
the  other  guardians,  and  after  a  considerable 
amount  of  amusing  stratagem  he  manages  to 
obtain  a  written  consent  to  his  marriage  with 
the  heiress  from  each  of  them,  which  they 
cannot  gainsay.  The  marriage  winds  up  the 
comedy.] 


FATHER  AND   DAUGHTER. 

(from  "the  wonder.") 
Enter  Isabella  and  Inis  her  maid. 

Inis.  For  goodness'  sake,  madam,  where  are 
you  going  in  this  pet? 

Isa.  Anywhere  to  avoid  matrimony;  the 
thought  of  a  husband  is  terrible  to  me. 

Inis.  Ay,  of  an  old  husband  ;  but  if  you  may 
choose  for  yourself,  I  fancy  matrimony  would 
be  no  such  frightful  thing  to  you. 

Isa.  You  are  pretty  much  in  the  right,  Inis; 
but  to  be  forced  into  the  arms  of  an  idiot,  who 
has  neither  person  to  please  the  eye,  sense  to 
charm  the  ear,  nor  generosity  to  supply  those 
defects.    Ah,  Inis,  what  pleasant  lives  women 


50 


SUSANNA  CENTLIVRE. 


lead  in  England,  where  duty  wears  no  fetters 
but  inclination !  The  custom  of  our  country 
enslaves  us  from  our  very  cradles ;  first  to  our 
parents,  next  to  our  husbands;  and  when 
Heaven  is  so  kind  to  rid  us  of  both  these,  our 
brothers  still  usui-p  authority,  and  expect  a 
blind  obedience  from  us :  so  that,  maids,  wives, 
or  widows,  we  are  little  better  than  slaves  to 
the  tyrant  man ;  therefore,  to  avoid  their 
power,  I  resolve  to  cast  myself  into  a  monas- 
tery. 

Inis.  That  is,  you'll  cut  yovu*  own  throat  to 
avoid  another's  doing  it  for  you.  Ah,  madam, 
those  eyes  tell  me  you  have  no  nun's  flesh 
about  you!  A  monastery,  quotha!  where  you'll 
wish  yourself  into  the  green  -  sickness  in  a 
month. 

Isa.  What  care  I  ?  there  will  be  no  man  to 
plague  me. 

Inis.  No,  nor,  what's  much  worse,  to  please 
you  neither.  Od'slife,  madam,  you  are  the 
first  woman  that  ever  despaired  in  a  Chi'istian 
country !     Were  I  in  your  place — 

Isa.  Why,  what  would  your  wisdom  do  if 
you  were? 

Inis.  I'd  embark  with  the  first  fair  wind 
with  all  my  jewels,  and  seek  my  fortune  on 
t'other  side  the  water;  no  shore  can  treat  you 
worse  than  your  own ;  there's  never  a  father 
in  Christendom  should  make  me  marry  any 
man  against  my  wiU. 

Isa.  I  am  too  great  a  coward  to  foUow 
your  advice :  I  must  contrive  some  way  to 
avoid  Don  Guzman,  and  yet  stay  in  my  own 
country. 

Enter  Don  Lopez. 

Lop.  Must  you  so,  mistress?  but  I  shall 
take  care  to  prevent  you.  (Aside.)  Isabella, 
whither  are  you  going,  my  child  ? 

Isa.  To  church,  sir. 

Inis.  The  old  rogue  has  certainly  overheard 
her.  [Aside. 

Lop.  Your  devotion  must  needs  be  very 
strong  or  your  memory  very  weak,  my  dear ; 
why,  vespers  are  over  for  this  night.  Come, 
come,  you  shall  have  a  better  errand  to  church 
than  to  say  your  prayers  there.  Don  Gxizman 
Ls  arrived  in  the  river,  and  I  expect  him  ashore 
to-morrow. 

Isa.  Ha  !  to-morrow  I 

Lop.  He  writes  me  word  that  his  estate  in 
Holland  is  worth  twelve  thousand  crowns  a 
year;  which,  together  with  what  he  had  be- 
fore, will  make  thee  the  happiest  wife  in 
Lisbon. 

Isa.  And  the  most  unhappy  woman  in  the 
world.     Oh,  sii",  if  I  have  any  power  in  your 


heart,  if  the  tenderness  of  a  father  be  not  quite 
extinct,  hear  me  with  patience. 

Lop.  No  objection  against  the  marriage,  and 
I  will  hear  whatsoever  thou  ha.st  to  say. 

Isa.  That's  torturing  me  on  the  rack,  and 
forbidding  me  to  groan;  upon  my  knees  I  claim 
the  privilege  of  flesh  and  blood.  [Kneels. 

Lop.  I  grant  it;  thou  shalt  have  an  arm 
full  of  flesh  and  blood  to-morrow.  Flesh  and 
blood,  quotha !  heaven  forbid  I  should  deny 
thee  flesh  and  blood,  my  girl. 

Inis.  Here's  an  old  dog  for  you !        [A  side. 

Isa.  Do  not  mistake,  sir;  the  fatal  stroke 
which  separates  soul  and  body  is  not  more 
terrible  to  the  thoughts  of  sinners  than  the 
name  of  Guzman  to  my  ear. 

Lop.  Pho,  pho  !  you  lie,  you  lie  ! 

Isa.  My  frighted  heart  beats  hard  against 
my  breast,  as  if  it  sought  a  passage  to  your 
feet,  to  beg  you'd  change  your  purpose. 

Lop.  A  very  pretty  speech  this ;  if  it  were 
turned  into  blank  verse  it  would  serve  for  a 
tragedy.  Why,  thou  hast  more  wit  than  I 
thought  thou  hadst,  child.  I  fancy  this  was 
all  extempore ;  I  don't  believe  thou  didst  ever 
think  one  word  on't  before. 

I)iis.  Yes,  but  she  has,  my  lord  ;  for  I  have 
heard  her  say  the  same  things  a  thousand 
times. 

Lop.  How,  how?  What,  do  you  top  your 
second-hand  jests  upon  your  father,  hussy, 
who  knows  better  what's  good  for  you  than 
you  do  yourself?  Remember,  'tis  your  duty 
to  obey. 

Isa.  (Rises.)  1  never  disobeyed  you  before, 
and  wish  I  had  not  reason  now;  but  nature 
has  got  the  better  of  my  duty,  and  makes  me 
loath  the  harsh  commands  you  lay. 

Lop.  Ha,  ha !  very  fine  !     Ha,  ha  ! 

Isa.  Death  itself  would  be  welcome. 

Lop.  Are  you  sure  of  that? 

Isa.  I  am  your  daughter,  my  lord,  and  can 
boast  as  strong  a  resolution  as  yourself;  I'll 
die  before  I'll  marry  Guzman. 

Lop.  Say  you  so?  I'll  try  that  presently. 
(Draws.)  Here,  let  me  see  with  what  dex- 
terity you  can  breathe  a  vein  now.  (Offers  her 
his  sword.)  The  point  is  pretty  sharp ;  'twUl 
do  your  business,  I  warrant  you. 

Inis.  Bless  me,  sir,  what  do  you  mean,  to 
put  a  sword  into  the  hands  of  a  desperate 
woman? 

Lop.  Desperate !  ha,  ha,  ha !  you  see  how 
desperate  she  is.  What,  art  thou  frightened, 
little  Bell?  ha! 

Isa.  I  confess  I  am  startled  at  your  morals, 
sir. 


JOHN  O'NEACHTAN. 


51 


Lo'p.  Ay,  ay,  child,  thou  hadst  better 
take  the  man,  he'll  hurt  thee  least  of  the 
two. 

ha.  I  shall  take  neither,  sir ;  death  has 
many  doors,  and  when  I  can  live  no  longer 
with  pleasure  I  shall  find  one  to  let  him  in  at 
without  your  aid. 

Lop.  Say'st  thou  so,  my  dear  Bell?  Ods, 
I'm  afraid  thou  art  a  little  lunatic,  Bell.  I 
must  take  care  of  thee,  child.  {Takes  hold  of 
A«',  and  pulls  a  key  out  of  his  pocket.)  I  shall 
make  bold  to  secure  thee,  my  dear.     I'll  see 


if  locks  and  bars  can  keep  thee  till  Guzman 
comes.     Go,  get  into  your  chamber. 

[Pushes  her  in,  and  locks  the  door. 
There  I'll  your  boasted  resolution  try — 
And  see  who'll  get  the  better,  you  or  I. 

[E-veunt. 

[She  jumped  out  of  a  window,  luckily  into 
the  arms  of  a  Captain  Briton,  who  was  in 
Lisbon  at  the  time  and  happened  to  be  pass- 
ing. He  conveyed  her  to  a  house  near,  wliich 
happened  to  be  the  residence  of  a  friend. 
After  a  series  of  adventures  they  get  married.] 


JOHN    O'NEACHTAN. 

Probably  about  1695-1720. 


[Of  this  writer  little  remains  but  the  two 
poems  quoted,  which  were  translated  by  the 
diligent  gleaners  of  Hardiman's  Irish  Min- 
strelsy. He  was  a  native  of  Meath ;  "  a 
learned  man  and  ingenious  poet ",  says  Hardi- 
man,  going  on  to  speak  of  his  five  hundred 
page  treatise  on  geography  and  his  cuiious 
Annals  of  Ireland.  The  events  of  his  life 
are  unknown.] 


MAGGY  LAIDIR. 

Here's  first  the  toast,  the  pride  and  boast, 
Our  darling  Maggy  Laidir ; 
Let  old  and  young,  with  ready  tongue 
And  open  heart,  applaud  her. 
Again  prepare — here's  to  the  Fair 
Whose  smiles  with  joy  have  crown'd  us, 
Then  drain  the  bowl  for  each  gay  soul 
That's  drinking  here  around  us. 

Come,  friends,  don't  fail  to  toast  O'Neill, 
Whose  race  our  rights  defended ; 
Maguire  the  true,  O'Donnell  too, 
From  eastern  sires  descended. 
Up  !  up  again — the  tribe  of  Maine 
In  danger  never  failed  us, 
With  Leinster's  spear  for  ever  near, 
When  foemen  have  assail'd  us. 

The  madder  fill  with  right  good  will, 

There's  sure  no  joy  like  drinking — 

Our  Bishop's  name  this  draught  must  claim 

Come  let  me  have  no  shrinking. 

His  name  is  dear,  and  with  him  here 

We'll  join  old  Father  Peter, 

And  as  he  steers  thro'  life's  long  years, 

May  life  to  him  seem  sweeter. 

Come  mark  the  call,  and  drink  to  all 
Old  Ireland's  tribes  so  glorious, 


Who  still  have  stood,  in  fields  of  blood. 

Unbroken  and  victorious : 

Long  as  of  old  may  Connaught  hold 

Her  boast  of  peerless  beauty ; 

And  Leinster  show  to  friend  and  foe 

Her  sons  all  prompt  for  duty. 

A  curse  for  those  who  dare  oppose 

Our  country's  claim  for  freedom ; 

May  none  appear  the  knaves  to  hear, 

Or  none  who  hear  'em  heed  'em : 

May  fiimine  fall  upon  them  all. 

May  pests  and  plagues  confound  them, 

And  heartfelt  care,  and  black  despair. 

Till  life's  la.st  hour  surround  them. 

May  lasting  joys  attend  the  boys 

AVho  love  the  land  that  bore  us. 

Still  may  they  share  such  friendly  fare 

As  this  that  spreads  before  us. 

May  social  cheer,  like  what  we've  here. 

For  ever  stand  to  greet  them ; 

And  hearts  as  sound  as  those  around 

Be  ready  still  to  meet  them. 

Come  raise  the  voice !  rejoice,  rejoice, 

Fast,  fast,  the  dawn's  advancing, 

My  eyes  grow  dim,  but  every  limb 

Seems  quite  agog  for  dancing. 

Sweet  girls  begin,  'tis  shame  and  sin 

To  see  the  time  we're  losing. 

Come,  lads,  be  gay — trip,  trip  away, 

AVhile  those  who  sit  keep  boozing. 

Where's  Thady  Oge?  up,  Dan,  you  rogue, 

AVhy  stand  you  shilly-shally ; 

There's  Mora  here,  and  Una's  here, 

And  yonder's  sporting  Sally. 

Now  frisk  it  round — aye,  there's  the  sound 

Our  sires  were  fond  of  hearing ; 

The  harp  rings  clear — hear,  gossip,  hear ; 

0  sure  such  notes  are  cheering! 

Your  health,  my  friend  !  till  life  shall  end 

May  no  bad  chance  betide  us ; 


52 


JOHN   O'NEACHTAN. 


Oh  may  we  still,  our  grief  to  kill, 

Have  drink  like  this  beside  us ! 

A  fig  for  care  !  but  who's  that  there 

That's  of  a  quarrel  thinking? — 

Put  out  the  clown  or  knock  him  down — 

We're  here  for  fun  and  drinking. 

Tie  up  his  tongue — am  I  not  sprung 
From  chiefs  that  all  must  honour — 
The  princely  Gael,  the  great  O'Xeill, 
O'Kelly  and  O'Connor, 
O'Brien  the  strong,  Maguire,  whose  song 
Has  won  the  praise  of  nations; 
O'More  the  tough,  and  big  Branduft', 
These  are  my  blood  relations ! 


A   LAMENT.' 


Dark  source  of  my  anguish  !  deep  wound  of  a  land 
Whose   }"Oung  and  defenceless  the  loss  will  de- 
plore; 
The  munificent  spirit,  the  liberal  hand, 
Still  stretched  the  full  bounty  it  prompted  to  pour. 

The  stone  is  laid  o'er  thee  !  the  fair  glossy  braid, 
The  high  brow,  the  light  cheek  with  its  roseate 

glow; 
The  bright  form,  and  the  berry  that  dwelt  and 

could  fade 
On  these  lips,  thou  sage  giver,  all,  all  are  laid  low. 

Like  a  swan  on  the  billows,  she  moved  in  her 
grace, 

Snow-white  were  her  limbs,  and  with  beauty  re- 
plete. 

And  time  on  that  pure  brow  had  left  no  more  trace 

Than  if  he  had  sped  with  her  own  fairy  feet. 

Whatever  of  purity,  gloiy,  hath  ever 

Been    linked   with  the  name,   lovely  Mary,  was 

thine; 
Woe,  woe,  that  the  tomb,  ruthless  tyrant,  should 

sever 
The  tie  which  our  spirits  half  broken  resign. 

Than  Caesar  of  hosts — the  true  darling  of  Rome, 
Far  prouder  was  James — where  pure  spirits  are 
met. 


'  This  poem  is  a  lament  for  Mary  D'Este,  queen  of 
James  II.  She  died  at  St.  Germaine,  April  26th,  1718. 
Her  son,  called  .Tames  PYancis  Edward,  was  the  Chevalier 
de  St.  George,  so  much  beloved  by  the  Irish. 


The  virgin,  the  saint — though  heav'n's  radiance 

illume 
Their  brows — Erin's  wrongs  can  o'ershadow  them 

yet. 

And  rank  be  the  poison,  the  plagues  that  di.stil 
Through  the  heart  of  the  spoiler  that  laid  them  in 

dust, 
The  rapt  bard  with  their  glory  the  nations  shall  fill. 
With  the  fame  of  his  patrons,  the  generous,  the 

just. 

Wherever  the  beam  of  the  morning  is  shed, 
AVith  its  light  the  full  fame  of  our  lov'd  ones  hath 

shone, 
The  deep  curse  of  our  sorrow  shall  burst  on  his 

head 
That  hath  hurl'd  them,  the  pride  of  our  hearts, 

from  their  throne. 

The  mid-day  is  dark  with  unnatural  gloom — 
And  a  spectral  lament  wildly  shrieked  in  the  air 
Tells  all  hearts  that  our  princess  lies  cold  in  the 

tomb, 
Bids  the  old  and  the  young  bend  in  agony  there ! 

Faint  the  lowing  of  kine  o'er  the  sear'd  yellow 
lawn ! 

And  tuneless  the  warbler  that  droops  on  the  spray  ! 

The  bright  tenants  that  flashed  through  the  cur- 
rent are  gone. 

For  the  princess  we  honoured  is  laid  in  the  clay. 

Darkly  brooding  alone  o'er  his  bondage  and  shame, 
By  the  shore  in  mute  agony  wanders  the  Gael, — 
And  sad  is  my  spirit,  and  clouded  my  dream, 
For  my  king,  for  the  star,  my  devotion  would  hail. 

What  woe  beyond  this  hath  dark  fortune  to  wreak? 
What  wrath  o'er  the  land  yet  remains  to  be  hurl'd? 
They  turn  them  to  Rome !   but  despairing  they 

shriek, 
For  Spain's  flag  in  defeat  and  defection  is  furled. 

Though  our  sorrows  avail  not,  our  hope  is  not 
lost— 

For  the  Father  is  mighty  !  the  highest  remains ! 

The  loos'd  waters  rushed  down  upon  Pharaoh's 
wide  host. 

But  the  billows  crouch  back  from  the  foot  he  sus- 
tains. 

Just  Power !  that  for  Moses  the  wave  did'st  divide. 
Look  down  on  the  land  where  thy  followers  pine; 
Look  down  upon  Erin,  and  crush  the  dark  pride 
Of  the  scourge  of  thy  people,  the  foes  of  thy  shrine. 


SIR  RICHARD   STEELE. 


63 


SIR    RICHARD    STEELE. 


Born  1672  --  Died  1729. 


[Richard  Steele  was  born  in  Dublin  on  the 
12th  Marcli,  1672,  a  few  weeks  before  the 
birth  of  his  life-long  friend  Joseph  Addison. 
His  father  was  an  attorney,  his  mother,  as  he 
himself  says,  "  a  very  beautifid  woman,  of  a 
noble  spirit."  While  he  was  in  his  fifth  year 
his  father  died;  but  notwitlistanding  tliis  tliere 
was  little  change  in  his  condition  until  his 
thirteenth  year,  when,  through  the  influence 
of  the  Duke  of  Ormond,  he  became  a  founda- 
tioner at  the  Charterhouse  in  London.  There 
in  1686  he  met  with  Addison,  and  from  there 
lie  went  to  Oxford  in  1()9().  Addison  had 
already  gone  to  Oxford,  and  on  Steele  joining 
him  the  friendship  was  renewed. 

While  at  Oxford,  Steele,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  began  to  write  verses,  and  in  1695  he 
made  public  his  first  poem.  The  Procession, 
■which  had  for  its  subject  the  funeral  of  Queen 
Mary.  His  best  work  at  this  time,  however, 
■was  in  helping  Addison  to  "  break  loose  from 
the  critical  cobwebs  of  an  age  of  periwigs  and 
patches,"  and  in  helping  to  lay  the  first  foun- 
dation of  that  reputation,  which,  with  the 
generosity  of  his  nature,  he  built  so  high 
that  it  is  only  now  his  own  is  beginning  to 
properly  appear  out  of  the  shadow.  Presently, 
leaving  Addison  to  his  slow-going  longings  to 
"  launch  into  a  bolder  strain,"  Steele  allowed 
his  patriotism  to  caiTy  him  away,  and  he 
enlisted  as  a  private  in  the  Coldstream  Guards. 
For  this,  as  he  says  himself,  "  he  lost  the  suc- 
cession to  a  very  good  estate  in  the  county  of 
Wexford,  from  the  same  humour  which  he  has 
preserved  ever  since,  of  preferring  the  state  of 
his  mijid  to  that  of  his  fortune."  The  colonel 
of  the  regiment.  Lord  Cutts,  soon  made  Steele 
his  secretary,  and  got  him  a  commission  as 
ensign.  While  an  ensign  he  wrote  his  Chris- 
tian Hero,  chiefly  to  confirm  himself  in  resist- 
ing the  temptations  of  his  position;  but  as  it 
rather  failed  to  do  this  he  made  it  public,  in 
the  hope  that  then  it  would  have  a  greater 
effect  ou  him.  The  book  was  at  once  a  success, 
but  in  the  eyes  of  his  brother  officers  he  had 
changetl  from  being  a  good  companion  into  a 
disagreeable  fellow.  To  remedy  this,  and  also 
to  show  that  his  style  was  not  in  reality  a 
didactic  one,  he  soon  after  produced  a  bright 
little  comedy,  The  Funeral;  or,  Grief  a  la 
Mode,  in  which,  however,  he  adhered  to  the 


condemnation  of  the  things  condemned  in  his 
book.  This  comedy,  first  acted  in  1702,  made 
him  at  once  popular  with  the  town.  In  1703 
it  was  followed  by  The  Tender  Husband,  which 
was  dedicated  to  Addison,  and  to  which 
Addison  wrote  a  prologue.  This  comedy  is 
gay  in  manner  and  full  of  pure  wit,  yet  it 
preaches  an  effective  moral,  and  has  many  a 
hit  at  the  fashionable  vices  of  the  day.  In 
1704  he  produced  the  Lying  Lovers,  an  adap- 
tation from  the  French.  The  play  was  not  a 
success,  art  being  sacrificed  in  it  to  morality. 
Its  failure  placed  Steele  in  the  position  "  of 
being  the  only  English  dramatist  who  had  had 
a  piece  damned  for  its  piety."  Foote  after- 
wards re-adapted  it  as  The  Liar,  in  which 
form  it  still  keeps  the  stage. 

From  1704  to  1707  Steele  wrote  little,  except 
possibly  as  a  collaborateur.  In  May  of  the 
latter  year  he  was  appointed  to  the  office  of 
gazetteer,  the  work  of  which  he  performed 
with  care  and  faithfulness.  In  the  same  yeai- 
he  mai-ried  his  second  wife,  he  having  already 
been  married  to  a  lady  belonging  to  Barbadoes, 
who  died  a  few  months  after  her  marriage. 
From  Addison  he  borrowed  a  thousand  pounds 
to  "set  up  house,"  and  the  thousand  was 
repaid  within  a  year.  On  the  12th  of  April, 
1709,  he  published  the  first  number  of  his 
Tatler,  "for  the  use  of  the  good  people  of 
England,"  but  in  which  he  candidly  declared 
that  he  was  "  an  author  wi'iting  for  the  public, 
who  expected  from  the  public  payment  for  his 
work,  and  that  he  preferred  this  to  gambling 
for  the  patronage  of  men  in  office."  The  first 
eighty  numbers  of  the  publication  he  produced 
entirely  out  of  his  own  resources,  but  the 
mental  strain  must  have  been  great,  and  no 
doubt  he  welcomed  the  return  of  Addison 
from  Ireland,  as  it  gave  him  an  oppoi'tunity 
of  inducing  his  friend  to  join  him  in  the  work. 
On  the  2d  of  January,  1711,  the  Tatler  was 
discontinued,  after  a  career  of  great  usefulness 
and  influence,  and  on  the  1st  of  the  following 
March  appeared  the  first  number  of  the  Spec- 
tator, that  living  monument  to  the  friendship 
of  two  honest  men.  The  Spectator  was  even 
a  greater  success  than  the  Tatler,  and  on  the 
articles  contributed  to  it  to  please  his  friend 
now  chiefly  rests  Addison's  fame — a  fame 
which  Steele  took  every  opportunity  of  enlarg- 


54 


SIE  EICHARD  STEELE. 


ing.  In  the  555th  number  of  tlie  Spectator 
proper,  Steele  brought  it  to  a  conclusion ;  but 
a  year  and  a  half  later  Addison  revived  it. 
The  revival  was  not  a  success  fi'om  any  point 
of  view.  Addison,  without  the  guiding  hand 
of  his  friend,  fell  below  his  former  standard. 
His  teaching  became  preaching,  and  his  wit 
lost  both  in  delicacy  and  point.  After  the 
production  of  eighty  numbers  he  wisely  gave 
up  the  struggle,  and  his  supplementary  Spec- 
tator was  allowed  to  become  the  eighth  volume 
of  the  complete  series. 

Already,  on  March  the  12th,  1713,  Steele 
had  issued  the  first  number  of  his  Guardian, 
the  plan  of  which  gave  him  more  liberty  to 
write  as  a  politician,  which  on  entering  par- 
liament he  found  was  desirable.  The  Guar- 
dian, however,  he  brought  to  an  end,  of  his 
own  freewill,  on  the  1st  of  October,  when  it 
had  reached  175  numbers,  and  five  days  later 
he  issued  the  first  number  of  the  Englishman. 
The  Englishman  did  not  live  very  long,  but 
for  the  writing  of  its  last  number,  as  well  as 
for  the  celebrated  Crisis,  he  was  expelled 
from  the  House  of  Commons  by  a  factious 
majority.  Swift  attacked  the  Crisis  with  all 
his  force  in  The  Public  Spirit  of  the  Whigs. 
In  the  Crisis  Steele  indulged  in  no  personali- 
ties, unless  we  call  his  praise  of  the  Scottish 
nation  such.  Swift,  on  the  other  hand,  indulged 
in  personal  abuse  of  his  manly  opponent  and 
one-time  friend,  and  launched  his  bitterest 
satire  at  the  poverty  and  gi-eed  of  the  Scotch. 
Though  expelled  the  house  the  moral  victory 
in  the  mMee  was  with  Steele. 

Being  now  at  leisure,  owing  to  his  expulsion 
and  the  discontinuance  of  the  Englishman, 
Steele  wrote  An  Apology  for  Himself  and  his 
Writings,  which  may  be  found  in  his  Political 
Writings,  published  in  1715.  Shortly  after  he 
produced  a  deservedly  forgotten  treatise  en- 
titled Romish  Ecclesiastical  History  of  Late 
Years,  and  in  the  same  year  two  papers  allied 
77^6  Lover  and  The  Reader. 

On  the  death  of  Queen  Anne  and  accession 
of  George  I.,  Steele  was  appointed  surveyor 
of  the  royal  stables,  governor  of  the  Royal 
Company  of  Comedians,  and  a  magistrate  for 
Middlesex.  In  April,  1715,  he  was  also 
knighted,  and  in  George's  first  parliament 
he  was  chosen  member  for  Boroughbridge. 
Finally,  after  the  suppression  of  the  rebel- 
lion in  the  north,  he  was  made  one  of  the 
commissioners  of  the  forfeited  estates.  In  this 
year,  1715,  he  published  .471  Account  of  the 
State  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Religion  through- 
out the  World,  as  well  as  A  Letter  from  the 


Earl  of  Mar  to  the  King.  In  1716  he  pro- 
duced a  second  volume  of  tlie  Englishman;  in 
1718  An  Account  of  his  Fishpool;  in  1719  The 
Spinster,  a  pamphlet;  and  A  Letter  to  the 
Earl  of  Oxford  concerning  the  Bill  of  Peerage. 
This  bill  he  opposed  in  the  House  of  Commons 
as  well  as  in  the  Plebeian.  Addison  replied 
to  his  criticisms  in  the  Old  Whig,  and  thus,  a 
year  before  the  death  of  the  latter,  a  coolness 
sprang  up  between  the  two  friends.  In  1720 
Steele  wrote  two  pieces  against  the  South  Sea 
scheme :  one  The  Crisis  of  Property,  the  other 
A  Nation  a  Family.  In  January  of  the  same 
year,  under  the  assumed  name  of  Sir  John 
Edgar,  he  commenced  a  paper  called  The 
Theatre,  wliich  he  continued  till  the  following 
5th  of  April.  During  its  existence  his  patent 
asgovernorof  the  Royal  Company  of  Comedians 
was  revoked.  This,  which  was  a  heavy  loss 
to  him,  he  discussed  calmly  in  a  pamphlet 
called  The  State  of  the  Case.  In  1721,  on  the 
accession  of  Walpole  to  power,  he  was  rein- 
stated in  his  post,  and  in  1722  his  Conscious 
Lovers  was  produced  with  great  success. 

Soon  after  this,  having  lost  in  1723  his  only 
surviving  son,  his  health  began  to  decline,  and, 
hoping  for  an  improvement,  he  moved  from 
London  to  Bath,  and  from  there  to  Llangun- 
nor  near  Caermarthen,  where  he  lodged  with 
his  agent  and  receiver  of  rents.  In  1726  he 
had  an  attack  of  palsy,  and  on  the  1st  of  Sep- 
tember, 1729,  he  died,  having  "retained  his 
cheerful  sweetness  of  temper  to  the  last." 

Steele's  position  in  literature  is  only  now, 
after  many  years,  beginning  to  be  properly 
appreciated.  In  him  is  well  seen  how  ready 
the  world  is  to  take  a  man  at  his  own  measure- 
ment, for  as  he  claimed  to  be  only  a  "  whet- 
stone to  the  wit  of  others,"  as  Professor  Mor- 
ley  puts  it,  the  world  gave  him  credit  for 
little  more.  As  a  dramatist  he  was  superior 
to  Addison — as  an  editor  superior  beyond 
comparison.  His  essays  form  that  part  of  the 
Spectator  "which,"  says  the  winter  just  quoted, 
"took  the  widest  grasp  upon  the  hearts  of 
man."  "  It  was,"  continues  Professor  Morley, 
"the  firm  hand  of  his  friend  Steele  that  helped 
Addison  up  to  the  place  in  literature  which 
became  him.  .  .  .  There  were  those  who 
argued  that  he  was  too  careless  of  his  own 
fame  in  unselfish  labour  for  the  exaltation  of 
his  friend,  and  no  doubt  his  rare  generosity 
of  temper  has  been  often  misinterpreted. 
But  ...  he  knew  his  countrymen,  and  was 
in  too  genuine  accord  with  the  spirit  of  a  time 
then  distant  but  now  come,  to  doubt  that, 
when  he  was  dead,  his  whole  life's  work  would 


SIR    RICHARD    STEELE 

After  the  Painting  by  SIR   GODFREY  KXELLER 


SIR  RICHARD   STEELE. 


55 


speak  for  him  to  posterity."  Let  us  now  at 
last  make  this  belief  a  true  one,  and  let 
us  no  longer  be  found  speaking  of  the  Spec- 
tator aa  "  Addison's  Spectator;'"  but,  if  the 
admirers  of  Addison  will  have  it  so,  as  "  the 
Steele- Addison  Spectator."  For  among  other 
things  let  it  be  remembered  that  of  the  essays 
in  the  Tatler,  Spectator,  and  Ouardian,  510 
belonged  to  Steele  and  369  to  Addison,  while 
Steele  was  in  addition  projector,  founder,  and 
editor — and  what  he  was  as  an  editor  may  be 
inferred  when  we  look  at  Addison  attempting 
to  walk  alone.] 


THE   CIVIL    HUSBAND.* 

The  fate  and  character  of  the  inconstant 
Osmyn  is  a  just  excuse  for  the  little  notice 
taken  by  his  widow  of  his  departure  out  of  this 
life,  which  was  equally  troublesome  to  Elmira, 
his  faithful  spouse,  and  to  himself.  That  life 
passed  between  them  after  this  manner  is  the 
reason  the  town  has  just  now  received  a  lady 
with  all  that  gaiety,  after  having  been  a  relict 
but  three  months,  which  other  women  hardly 
assume  under  fifteen  after  such  a  disaster. 
Elmira  is  the  daughter  of  a  rich  and  worthy 
citizen,  who  gave  her  to  Osmyn  with  a  portion 
which  might  have  obtained  her  an  alliance 
with  our  noblest  houses,  and  fixed  her  in  the 
eye  of  the  world,  where  her  story  had  not  been 
now  to  be  related ;  for  her  good  qualities  had 
made  her  the  object  of  universal  esteem  among 
the  polite  part  of  mankind,  from  whom  she 
has  been  banished  and  immured  till  the  death 
of  her  jailer. 

It  is  now  full  fifteen  years  since  that  beau- 
teous lady  was  given  into  the  hands  of  the 
happy  Osmyn,  who  in  the  sense  of  all  the 
world  received  at  that  time  a  present  more 
valuable  than  the  possession  of  both  the  Indies. 
She  was  then  in  her  early  bloom,  with  an 
understanding  and  discretion  very  little  in- 
ferior to  the  most  experienced  matrons.  She 
was  not  beholden  to  the  charms  of  her  sex, 
that  her  company  was  preferable  to  any  Osmyn 
could  meet  with  abroad ;  for  were  all  she  said 
considered,  without  regard  to  her  being  a 
woman,  it  might  stand  the  examination  of  the 
severest  judges.  She  had  all  the  beauty  of 
her  own  sex,  with  all  the  conversation-accom- 
plishments of  ours. 

But  Osmyn  very  soon  grew  surfeited  with 


1  Number  53  of  The  Tatler. 


the  charms  of  her  person  by  possession,  and  of 
her  mind  by  want  of  taste ;  for  he  was  one 
of  that  loose  sort  of  men,  who  have  but  one 
reason  for  setting  any  value  upon  the  fair  sex, 
who  consider  even  brides  but  as  new  women, 
and  consequently  neglect  them  when  they 
cease  to  be  such.  All  the  merit  of  Elmira 
could  not  prevent  her  becoming  a  mere  wife 
within  few  months  after  her  nuptials;  and 
Osmyn  had  so  little  relish  for  her  conversation 
that  he  complained  of  the  advantages  of  it. 

"  My  spouse,"  said  he  to  one  of  his  com- 
panions, "  is  so  very  discreet,  so  good,  so  vir- 
tuous, and  I  know  not  what,  that  I  think  her 
person  is  rather  the  object  of  esteem  than  of 
love;  and  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  merit 
which  causes  rather  distance  than  passion." 

But  there  being  no  medium  in  the  state  of 
matrimony,  their  life  began  to  take  the  usual 
gradations  to  become  the  most  irksome  of  all 
beings.  They  grew  in  the  first  place  very 
complaisant;  and  having  at  heart  a  certain 
knowledge  that  they  were  indifferent  to  each 
other,  apologies  were  made  for  every  little 
circumstance  which  they  thought  betrayed 
their  mutual  coldness.  This  lasted  but  few 
months,  when  they  showed  a  difi"erence  of 
opinion  in  every  trifle  ;  and,  as  a  sign  of  cer- 
tain decay  of  affection,  the  word  perhaps  was 
introduced  in  all  their  discourse. 

"I  have  a  mind  to  go  to  the  park,"  says 
she,  "but  perhaps,  my  dear,  you  w-ill  want 
the  coach  on  some  other  occasion."  He  would 
very  willingly  cany  her  to  the  play,  but  per- 
haps she  had  rather  go  to  Lady  Centaure's  and 
play  at  ombre.  They  were  both  persons  of 
good  discerning,  and  soon  found  that  they 
mortally  hated  each  other,  by  their  manner  of 
hiding  it.  Certain  it  is,  that  there  are  some 
Genio's  which  are  not  capable  of  pure  affection, 
and  a  man  is  bom  with  talents  for  it  as  much 
as  for  poetry  or  any  other  science. 

Osmyn  began  too  late  to  find  the  imperfec- 
tion of  his  own  heart,  and  used  all  the  methods 
in  the  world  to  correct  it,  and  argue  himself 
into  return  of  desire  and  passion  for  his  wife, 
by  the  contemplation  of  her  excellent  qualities, 
his  gi-eat  obligations  to  her,  and  the  high  value 
he  saw  all  the  world  except  himself  did  put 
upon  her.  But  such  is  man's  unhappy  condi- 
tion, that  though  the  weakness  of  the  heart 
has  a  prevailing  power  over  the  strength  of  the 
head,  yet  the  strength  of  the  head  has  but 
small  force  against  the  weakness  of  the  heart. 
Osmyn  therefore  struggled  in  vain  to  revive 
departed  desire ;  and  for  that  reason  resolved 
to  retire  to  one  of  his  estates  in  the  country, 


56 


SIR  RICHAED   STEELE. 


and  pass  away  his  hours  of  wedlock  iu  the 
noble  diversions  of  the  field ;  and  in  the  fury 
of  a  disappointed  lover,  made  an  oath  to  leave 
neither  stag,  fox,  or  hare  living  during  the 
days  of  his  wife.  Besides  that  country  sports 
would  be  an  amusement,  he  hoped  also  that 
his  spouse  would  be  half  killed  by  the  very 
sense  of  seeing  this  town  no  more,  and  would 
think  her  life  ended  as  soon  as  she  left  it. 

He  communicated  his  design  to  Elmira,  who 
received  it  (as  now  she  did  all  things)  like  a 
pei'son  too  unhappy  to  be  relieved  or  afflicted 
by  the  circumstance  of  place.  This  unexpected 
resignation  made  Osmyn  resolve  to  be  as  oblig- 
ing to  her  as  possible;  and  if  he  could  not  pre- 
vail upon  himself  to  be  kind,  he  took  a  resolu- 
tion at  least  to  act  sincerely,  and  communicate 
frankly  to  her  the  weakness  of  his  temper,  to 
excuse  the  indifference  of  his  behaviour.  He 
disposed  his  household  in  the  way  to  Rutland, 
so  as  he  and  his  lady  travelled  only  in  the 
coach  for  the  conveniency  of  discourse.  They 
had  not  gone  many  miles  out  of  town  when 
Osmyn  spoke  to  this  purpose : — 

"  My  dear,  I  believe  I  look  quite  as  silly 
now  I  am  going  to  tell  you  I  do  not  love  you  as 
when  I  first  told  you  I  did.  We  are  now  going 
into  the  country  together,  with  only  one  hope 
for  making  this  life  agreeable — survivorship; 
desire  is  not  in  om-  power ;  mine  is  all  gone 
for  you.  What  shall  we  do  to  carry  it  with 
decency  to  the  world,  and  hate  one  another 
with  discretion?" 

The  lady  answered  without  the  least  obser- 
vation on  the  extravagance  of  the  speech : — 
"  My  dear,  you  have  lived  most  of  your 
days  in  a  court,  and  I  have  not  been  wholly 
unacquainted  with  that  sort  of  life.  In  courts, 
you  see,  good-will  is  spoken  with  great  warmth, 
ill-will  covered  with  great  civility.  Men  ai-e 
long  in  civilities  to  those  they  hate,  and  short 
in  expressions  of  kindness  to  those  they  love. 
Therefore,  my  dear,  let  us  be  well-bred  still, 
and  it  is  no  matter,  as  to  all  who  see  us, 
whether  we  love  or  hate ;  and  to  let  you  see 
how  much  you  are  beholden  to  me  for  my  con- 
duct, I  have  both  hated  and  despised  you,  my 
dear,  this  half  year;  and  yet  neither  in  language 
or  behaviour  has  it  been  visible  but  that  I  loved 
you  tenderly.  Therefore,  as  I  know  you  go 
out  of  town  to  divert  life  iu  pursuit  of  beasts, 
and  conversation  with  men  just  above  them ; 
so,  my  life,  from  this  moment  I  shall  read  all 
the  learned  cooks  who  have  ever  writ,  study 
broths,  plaisters,  and  conserves,  till  from  a 
fine  lady  I  become  a  notable  woman.  We 
must  take  our  minds  a  note  or  two  lower,  or 


we  shall  be  tortured  by  jealousy  or  anger. 
Thus  I  am  resolved  to  kill  all  keen  passions  by 
employing  my  mind  on  little  subjects,  and 
lessening  the  easiness  of  my  spirit;  while  you, 
my  dear,  with  much  ale,  exercise,  and  ill  com- 
pany, are  so  good  as  to  endeavour  to  be  as  con- 
temptible as  it  is  necessary  for  my  quiet  I 
should  think  you." 

To  Rutland  they  arrived,  and  lived  with 
great  but  secret  impatience  for  many  successive 
years,  till  Osmyn  thought  of  an  happy  ex- 
pedient to  give  their  affairs  a  new  turn.  One 
day  he  took  Elmira  aside,  and  spoke  as  fol- 
lows :  "  My  dear,  you  see  here  the  air  is  so  tem- 
perate and  serene,  the  rivulets,  the  groves,  and 
soil  so  extremely  kind  to  nature,  that  we  are 
stronger  and  firmer  in  our  health  since  we  left 
the  town,  so  that  there  is  no  hope  of  a  release 
in  this  place ;  but  if  you  will  be  so  kind  as  to 
go  with  me  to  my  estate  in  the  hundreds  of 
Essex,  it  is  possible  some  kind  damp  may  one 
day  or  other  relieve  us.  If  you  will  condescend 
to  accept  of  this  offer,  I  will  add  that  whole 
estate  to  your  jointure  in  this  county." 

Elmira,  who  was  all  goodness,  accepted  the 
offer,  removed  accordingly,  and  has  left  her 
spouse  in  that  place  to  rest  with  his  fathers. 

This  is  the  real  figure  in  which  Elmira  ought 
to  be  beheld  in  this  town,  and  not  thought 
guilty  of  an  indecoi'um  in  not  professing  the 
sense  or  bearing  the  habit  of  sorrow  foi-  one 
who  robbed  her  of  all  the  endearments  of  life 
and  gave  her  only  common  civility  instead  of 
complacency  of  manners,  dignity  of  passion, 
and  that  constant  assemblage  of  soft  desires 
and  affections  which  all  feel  who  love,  but 
none  can  express. 


INKLE   AND   YAIIIC0.» 

Arietta  is  visited  by  all  persons  of  both  sexes 
who  may  have  any  pretence  to  wit  and  gal- 
lantry. She  is  in  that  time  of  life  which  is 
neither  affected  with  the  follies  of  youth  or 
infirmities  of  age ;  and  her  conversation  is 
so  mixed  with  gaiety  and  prudence,  that 
she  is  agreeable  both  to  the  young  and  the 
old.  Her  behaviour  is  very  frank,  without 
being  in  the  least  blamable;  and  as  she  is  out 
of  the  track  of  any  amorous  or  ambitious  pur- 
suits of  her  own,  her  visitants  entertain  her 
with  accounts  of  themselves  very  freely,  whe- 
ther they  concern  their  passions  or  their  in- 


1  Number  11  of  The  Spectator. 


SIR  RICHARD   STEELE. 


terests.  I  made  her  a  visit  this  afternoon, 
having  been  formerly  introduced  to  tlie  honour 
of  her  acquaintance  by  my  friend  Will. 
Honeycomb,  who  h;is  prevailed  upon  her  to 
admit  me  sometimefi  into  her  assembly  as  a 
civil,  inotfensive  man.  I  found  her  accom- 
panied with  one  person  only,  a  commonplace 
talker,  who,  upon  my  entrance,  rose,  and  after 
a  very  slight  civility  sat  down  again ;  then 
turning  to  Arietta,  pursued  his  discourse, 
which  I  found  was  upon  the  old  topic,  of  con- 
stancy in  love.  He  went  on  with  great  facility 
in  repeating  what  he  talks  every  day  of  his 
life ;  and,  with  the  ornaments  of  insignificant 
laughs  and  gestures,  enforced  his  arguments 
by  quotations  out  of  plays  and  songs,  which 
allude  to  the  perjuiies  of  the  fair  and  the 
general  levity  of  women.  Methought  he 
strove  to  shine  more  than  ordinarily  in  his 
talkative  way,  that  he  might  insult  my  silence, 
and  distinguish  himself  before  a  woman  of 
Arietta's  taste  and  understanding.  She  had 
often  an  inclination  to  interrupt  him,  but 
could  find  no  oppoi^tunity,  'till  the  larum 
ceased  of  itself ;  which  it  did  not  till  he  had 
repeated  and  murdered  the  celebrated  story  of 
the  Ephesian  matron.^ 

Arietta  seemed  to  regard  this  piece  of  rail- 
lery as  an  outrage  done  to  her  sex ;  as  indeed 
I  have  always  observed  that  women,  whether 
out  of  a  nicer  regard  to  their  honour,  or  what 
other  reason  I  cannot  tell,  are  more  sensibly 
touched  with  those  general  aspei-sions  which 
are  cast  upon  their  sex  than  men  are  by  what 
is  said  of  theirs. 

When  she  had  a  little  recovered  herself  from 
the  serious  anger  she  was  in,  she  replied  in  the 
following  manner : — 

Sir,  when  I  consider  how  perfectly  new  all 
you  have  said  on  this  subject  is,  and  that  the 
story  you  have  given  us  is  not  quite  two  thou- 
sand years  old,  I  cannot  but  think  it  a  piece 
of  presumption  to  dispute  with  you  :  but  your 
quotations  put  me  in  mind  of  the  fable  of  the 
lion  and  the  man.  The  man  walking  with 
that  noble  animal,  showed  him,  in  the  osten- 
tation of  human  superiority,  a  sign  of  a  man 
killing  a  lion.  Upon  which  the  lion  said  very 
justly,  ''We  lions  are  none  of  us  painters,  else 
we  could  show  a  hundred  men  killed  by  lions 
for  one  lion  killed  by  a  man."  You  men  are 
writers,  and  can  represent  us  women  as  unbe- 


1  Told  in  the  prose  "SatjTicon"  ascribed  to  Petronius, 
whom  Nero  called  his  arbiter  of  elegance.  The  tale  was 
known  in  the  middle  ages  from  the  stories  of  the  "Seven 
Wise  Masters."  She  went  down  into  the  vault  with  her 
husband's  corpse,  resolved  to  weep  to  death  or  die  of 


coming  as  you  please  in  your  works,  while  we 
are  unable  to  return  the  injury.  You  have 
twice  or  thrice  observed  in  your  discourse  that 
hypocrisy  is  the  very  foundation  of  our  educa- 
tion; and  that  an  ability  to  dissemble  our  affec- 
tions is  a  professed  part  of  our  breeding. 
These,  and  such  other  reflections,  are  sprinkled 
up  and  down  the  writings  of  all  ages,  by 
authors,  who  leave  behind  them  memorials  of 
their  resentment  against  the  scorn  of  particu- 
lar women,  in  invectives  against  the  whole 
sex.  Such  a  writer,  I  doubt  not,  was  the  cele- 
brated Petronius,  who  invented  the  pleasant 
aggravations  of  the  frailty  of  the  Ephesian 
lady;  but  when  we  consider  this  question  be- 
tween the  sexes,  which  has  been  either  a  point 
of  dispute  or  raillery  ever  since  there  were 
men  and  women,  let  us  take  facts  from  plain 
people,  and  from  such  as  have  not  either  am- 
bition or  capacity  to  embellish  their  narrations 
with  any  beauties  of  imagination.  I  was  tlie 
other  day  amusing  myself  with  Ligon's  account 
of  Barbadoes;  and,  in  answer  to  your  well- 
wrought  tale,  I  will  give  you  (as  it  dwells 
upon  my  memory)  out  of  that  honest  traveller, 
in  his  fifty-fifth  page,  the  history  of  Inkle  and 
Yarico. 

Mr.  Thomas  Inkle  of  London,  aged  twenty 
years,  embarked  in  the  Downs,  on  the  good 
ship  called  the  Achilles,  bound  for  the  West 
Indies,  on  the  16th  of  June,  1(547,  in  order  to 
improve  his  fortune  by  trade  and  merchandise. 
Our  adventurer  was  the  third  son  of  an  eminent 
citizen,  who  had  taken  particular  care  to  instil 
into  his  mind  an  early  love  of  gain,  by  making 
him  a  perfect  master  of  numbers,  and  conse- 
quently giving  him  a  quick  view  of  loss  and 
advantage,  and  preventing  the  natural  im- 
pulses of  his  passions,  by  prepossession  towards 
his  interests.  With  a  mind  thus  turned,  young 
Inkle  had  a  person  every  way  agreeable,  a  ruddy 
vigour  in  his  countenance,  strength  in  his 
limbs,  with  ringlets  of  fair  hair  loosely  flowing 
on  his  shoulders.  It  happened,  in  the  couree 
of  the  voyage,  that  the  Achilles,  in  some  dis- 
tress, put  into  a  creek  on  the  main  of  America 
in  search  of  provisions :  the  youth,  who  is  the 
hero  of  my  story,  among  othere,  went  ashore 
on  this  occasion.  From  their  first  landing 
they  were  observed  by  a  party  of  Indians,  who 
hid  themselves  in  the  woods  for  that  purpose. 
The  English  imadvisedly  marched  a  great  dis- 

famine;  but  was  tempted  to  share  the  supper  of  a  soldier 
who  was  watching  seven  bodies  hanging  upon  trees,  and 
that  verj'  night,  in  the  grave  of  her  husband  and  in  her 
funeral  garments,  married  her  new  and  stranger  guest. — 
Prof.  Morley. 


58 


SIE  EICHARD   STEELE. 


tance  from  the  shore  into  the  country,  and 
were  intercepted  by  the  natives,  who  slew  the 
greatest  number  of  them.  Our  adventurer 
escaped,  among  others,  by  flying  into  a  forest. 
Upon  his  coming  into  a  remote  and  pathless 
part  of  the  wood  he  threw  himself  [tired  and] 
breathless  on  a  little  hillock,  when  an  Indian 
maid  rushed  from  a  thicket  behind  him:  after 
the  first  surprise  they  appeared  mutually  agree- 
able to  each  other.  If  the  European  was  highly 
charmed  with  the  limbs,  features,  and  wild 
graces  of  the  naked  American,  the  American 
Wcis  no  less  taken  with  the  dress,  complexion, 
and  shape  of  an  European,  covered  fi'om  head 
to  foot.  The  Indian  grew  immediately  en- 
amoured of  him,  and  consequently  solicitous 
for  his  preservation :  she  therefore  conveyed 
him  to  a  cave,  where  she  gave  him  a  delicious 
repast  of  fruits,  and  led  him  to  a  stream  to 
slake  his  thirst.  In  the  midst  of  these  good 
offices  she  would  sometimes  play  with  his  hair, 
and  delight  in  the  opposition  of  its  colour  to 
that  of  her  fingers :  then  open  his  bosom,  then 
laugh  at  him  for  covering  it.  She  was,  it 
seems,  a  person  of  distinction,  for  she  every 
day  came  to  him  in  a  different  dress  of  the 
most  beautiful  shells,  bugles,  and  bredes.  She 
likewise  brought  him  a  great  many  spoils, 
which  her  other  lovers  had  presented  to  her ; 
so  that  his  cave  was  richly  adorned  with  all 
the  spotted  skins  of  beasts,  and  most  party- 
coloured  feathers  of  fowls,  which  that  world 
aff"orded.  To  make  his  confinement  more 
tolerable,  she  would  carry  him  in  the  dusk  of 
the  evening,  or  by  the  favour  of  moonlight,  to 
unfrequented  groves  and  solitudes,  and  show 
him  where  to  lie  down  in  safety  and  sleep 
amidst  the  falls  of  waters  and  melody  of  night- 
ingales. Her  part  was  to  watch  and  hold  him 
in  her  arms  for  fear  of  her  countrymen,  and 
wake  on  occasions  to  consult  his  safety.  In 
this  manner  did  the  lovers  pass  away  their 
time  till  they  had  learned  a  language  of  their 
own,  in  which  the  voyager  communicated  to 
his  mistress  how  happy  he  should  be  to  have 
her  in  his  country,  where  she  should  be  clothed 
in  such  silks  as  his  waistcoat  was  made  of,  and 
be  carried  in  houses  drawn  by  horses,  without 
being  exposed  to  wind  or  weather.  All  this 
he  promised  her  the  enjoyment  of,  without 
such  fears  and  alarms  as  they  were  there  tor- 
mented witli.  In  this  tender  correspondence 
these  lovers  lived  for  several  months,  when 
Yarico,  instructed  by  her  lover,  discovered  a 
vessel  on  the  coast,  to  which  she  made  signals, 
and  in  the  night,  with  the  utmost  joy  and 
satisfaction,  accompanied  him  to  a  .ship's  crew 


of  his  countrymen,  bound  for  Barbadoes. 
When  a  vessel  from  the  main  arrives  in  that 
island  it  seems  the  planters  come  down  to  the 
shore,  where  there  is  an  immediate  market  of 
the  Indians  and  other  slaves,  as  with  us  of 
horses  and  oxen. 

To  be  short,  Mr.  Thomas  Inkle,  now  coming 
into  English  territories,  began  seriously  to 
reflect  upon  his  loss  of  time,  and  to  weigh 
with  himself  how  many  days'  interest  of  his 
money  he  had  lost  during  his  stay  with  Yarico. 
This  thought  made  the  young  man  very  pen- 
sive, and  careful  what  account  he  should  be 
able  to  give  his  friends  of  his  voyage.  Upon 
which  considerations  the  prudent  and  frugal 
young  man  sold  Yarico  to  a  Barbadian  mer- 
chant ;  notwithstanding  that  the  poor  girl,  to 
incline  him  to  commiserate  her  condition,  told 
him  that  she  was  with  child  by  him :  but  he 
only  made  use  of  that  information  to  rise  in 
his  demands  upon  the  purchaser. 

I  was  so  touched  with  this  story  (which  I 
think  should  be  always  a  counterpart  to  the 
Ephesian  matron)  that  I  left  the  room  with 
tears  in  my  eyes ;  which  a  woman  of  Arietta's 
good  sense  did,  I  am  sure,  take  for  greater 
ajDplause  than  any  compliments  I  could  make 
her. 


SIR  ROGER  DE  COVERLEY'S  WOOING.* 

In  my  first  description  of  the  company  iu 
which  I  pass  most  of  my  time  it  may  be  re- 
membered that  I  mentioned  a  great  afliiction 
which  my  friend  Sir  Roger  had  met  with  in 
his  youth,  which  was  no  less  than  a  disappoint- 
ment in  love.  It  happened  this  evening  that 
we  fell  into  a  very  pleasing  walk  at  a  distance 
from  his  house :  as  soon  as  we  came  into  it, 
"  It  is,"  quoth  the  good  old  man,  looking  round 
him  with  a  smile,  "very  hard  that  any  part  of 
my  land  should  be  settled  upon  one  who  has 
used  me  so  ill  as  the  perverse  widow  did ;  and 
yet  I  am  sure  I  could  not  see  a  sprig  of  any 
bough  of  this  whole  walk  of  trees,  but  I  should 
reflect  upon  her  and  her  severity.  She  has 
certainly  the  finest  hand  of  any  woman  in  the 
world.  You  are  to  know  this  was  the  place 
wherein  I  used  to  muse  upon  her;  and  by  that 
custom  I  can  never  come  into  it  but  the  same 
tender  sentiments  revive  in  my  mind,  as  if  I 
had  actually  walked  with  that  beautiful  crea- 
ture under  these  shades.  I  have  been  fool 
enough  to  carve  her  name  on  the  bark  of  several 

1  Number  113  of  The  Spectator. 


SIR  RICHARD  STEELE. 


59 


of  these  trees;  so  unliappy  is  the  condition  of 
men  in  love,  to  attempt  tlie  removing  of  their 
passion  by  the  methods  which  serve  only  to 
imprint  it  deepei-.  She  haa  certainly  the  finest 
hand  of  any  woman  in  the  world." 

Here  followed  a  profound  silence;  and  I  was 
not  displeased  to  observe  my  friend  falling  so 
naturally  into  a  discourse,  which  I  had  ever 
before  taken  notice  he  industriously  avoided. 
After  a  very  long  pause  he  entered  upon  an 
account  of  this  great  circumstance  in  his  life, 
with  an  air  which  I  thought  raised  my  idea 
of  him  above  what  I  had  ever  had  before;  and 
gave  me  the  picture  of  that  cheerful  mind  of 
his,  before  it  received  that  stroke  which  hjis 
ever  since  affected  his  words  and  actions. 
But  he  went  on  as  follows: — 

"  I  came  to  my  estate  in  my  twenty-second 
year,  and  resolved  to  follow  the  steps  of  the 
most  worthy  of  my  ancestors  who  have  in- 
liabited  this  spot  of  earth  before  me,  in  all  the 
methods  of  hospitality  and  good  neighbour- 
hood, for  the  sake  of  my  fame;  and  in  country 
sports  and  recreations,  for  the  sake  of  my 
health.  In  my  twenty-third  year  I  was  obliged 
to  serve  as  sheriff  of  the  county ;  and  in  my 
servants,  officers,  and  whole  equipage  indulged 
the  pleasure  of  a  young  man  (who  did  not 
think  ill  of  his  own  person)  in  taking  that 
public  occasion  of  showing  my  figure  and  be- 
haviour to  advantage.  You  may  easily  ima- 
gine to  youi-self  what  appearance  I  made,  who 
am  pretty  tall,  rid  well,  and  was  very  well 
dressed,  at  the  head  of  a  whole  county,  with 
music  before  me,  a  feather  in  my  hat,  and  my 
horse  well  bitted.  I  can  assure  you  I  was 
not  a  little  pleased  with  the  kind  looks  and 
glances  I  had  from  all  the  balconies  and 
windows  as  I  rode  to  the  hall  where  the  assizes 
were  held.  But  when  I  came  there  a  beautiful 
creature  in  a  widow's  habit  sat  in  court  to  hear 
the  event  of  a  cause  concerning  her  dower. 
This  commanding  creature  (who  was  born  for 
destruction  of  all  who  behold  her)  put  on  such 
a  resignation  in  her  countenance,  and  bore  the 
whispers  of  all  ai'ound  the  court  with  such  a 
pretty  uneasiness,  I  warrant  you,  and  then 
recovered  herself  from  one  eye  to  another, 
'till  she  was  perfectly  confused  by  meeting 
something  so  wistful  in  all  she  encountered, 
that  at  last,  with  a  murrain  to  her,  she  cast 
her  bewitching  eye  upon  me.  I  no  sooner 
met  it  but  I  bowed  like  a  great  surprised 
booby ;  and  knowing  her  cause  to  be  the  firet 
which  came  on,  I  cried,  like  a  captivated  calf 
as  I  was,  '  Make  way  for  the  defendant's  wit- 
nesses.'    This  sudden  partiality  made  all  the 


county  immediately  see  the  sheriff  also  w:is 
become  a  slave  to  the  fine  widow.  During 
the  time  her  cause  was  upon  trial  she  behaved 
herself,  I  warrant  you,  with  such  a  deep  atten- 
tion to  her  business,  took  opportunities  to  have 
little  billets  handed  to  her  council,  then  would 
Ije  in  such  a  pretty  confusion,  occasioned,  you 
must  know,  by  acting  before  so  much  company, 
that  not  only  I  but  the  whole  court  was  pre- 
judiced in  her  favour;  and  all  that  the  next 
heir  to  her  husband  had  to  urge  was  thought 
so  groundless  and  frivolous,  that  when  it  came 
to  her  council  to  reply,  there  was  not  half  so 
much  said  as  every  one  besides  in  the  court 
thought  he  could  have  urged  to  her  advantage. 
You  must  understand,  sir,  this  perverse  woman 
is  one  of  those  unaccountable  creatures  that 
secretly  rejoice  in  the  admiration  of  men,  but 
indulge  themselves  in  no  further  consequences. 
Hence  it  is  that  she  has  ever  had  a  train  of 
admirers,  and  she  removes  from  her  slaves  in 
town  to  those  in  the  country,  according  to  the 
seasons  of  the  year.  She  is  a  reading  lady, 
and  far  gone  in  the  pleasui'es  of  friendship; 
she  is  always  accompanied  by  a  confidant,  who 
is  witness  to  her  daily  protestations  against 
our  sex,  and  consequently  a  bar  to  her  first 
steps  towards  love,  upon  the  strength  of  her 
own  maxims  and  declarations. 

"However,  I  must  needs  say  this  accom- 
plished mistress  of  mine  has  distinguished  me 
above  the  rest,  and  has  been  known  to  declai-e 
Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  was  the  tamest  and 
most  human  of  all  the  brutes  in  the  country. 
I  was  told  she  said  so  by  one  who  thought  he 
rallied  me ;  but  upon  the  strength  of  this 
slender  encouragement,  of  being  thought  least 
detestable,  I  made  new  liveries,  new  jiaired 
my  coaoh-horses,  sent  them  all  to  town  to  be 
bitted,  and  taught  to  tkrow  their  legs  well, 
and  move  all  together,  before  I  pretended  to 
cross  the  country  and  wait  upon  her.  As 
soon  as  I  thought  my  retinue  suitable  to  the 
character  of  my  fortune  and  youth,  I  set  out 
from  hence  to  make  my  addresses.  The  par- 
ticular skill  of  this  lady  has  ever  been  to  in- 
flame your  wishes,  and  yet  command  respect. 
To  make  her  mistress  of  this  art  she  has  a 
greater  share  of  knowledge,  wit,  and  good 
sense  than  is  usual  even  among  men  of  merit. 
Then  she  is  beautiful  beyond  the  race  of 
women.  If  you  won't  let  her  go  on  with  a 
certain  artifice  with  her  eyes,  and  the  skill  of 
beauty,  she  will  arm  herself  with  her  real 
charms,  and  strike  you  with  admiration  instead 
of  desire.  It  is  certain  that  if  you  were  to 
behold  the  whole  woman  there  is  that  dignity 


60 


SIR  RICHARD   STEELE. 


in  her  aspect,  that  composure  in  her  motion, 
that  complacency  in  her  manner,  that  if  her 
form  makes  you  hope,  her  merit  makes  you 
fear.  But  then  again,  she  is  such  a  desperate 
scholar,  that  no  country  gentleman  can  ap- 
proach her  without  being  a  jest.  As  I  was 
going  to  tell  you,  when  I  came  to  her  house 
I  was  admitted  to  her  presence  with  great 
civility;  at  the  same  time  she  placed  herself  to 
be  first  seen  by  me  in  such  an  attitude,  as  I 
think  you  call  the  posture  of  a  picture,  that 
she  discovered  new  charms,  and  I  at  last  came 
towards  her  with  such  an  awe  as  made  me 
speechless.  This  she  no  sooner  observed  but 
she  made  her  advantage  of  it,  and  began  a 
discourse  to  me  concerning  love  and  honour, 
as  they  both  are  followed  by  pretenders,  and 
the  real  votaries  to  them.  When  she  [had] 
discussed  these  points  in  a  discourse,  which  I 
verily  believe  was  as  learned  as  the  best  philo- 
sopher in  Europe  could  possibly  make,  she 
asked  me  whether  she  was  so  happy  as  to  fall 
in  with  my  sentiments  on  these  important 
particulars.  Her  confidant  sat  by  her,  and 
upon  my  being  in  the  last  confusion  and 
silence,  this  malicious  aid  of  hers,  turning  to 
her,  says,  I  am  very  glad  to  observe  Sir  Roger 
pauses  upon  this  subject,  and  seems  resolved 
to  deliver  all  his  sentiments  upon  the  matter 
when  he  pleases  to  sjDeak.  They  both  kept 
their  countenances,  and  after  I  had  sat  half  an 
hour  meditating  how  to  behave  before  such 
profound  casuists,  I  rose  up  and  took  my  leave. 
Cliauce  has  since  that  time  thrown  me  very 
often  in  her  way,  and  she  as  often  has  directed 
a  discourse  to  me  which  I  do  not  understand. 
This  barbarity  has  kept  me  ever  at  a  distance 
from  the  most  beautiful  object  my  eyes  ever 
beheld.  It  is  thus  also  she  deals  with  all  man- 
kind, and  you  must  make  love  to  her,  as  you 
would  conquer  the  sphinx,  by  posing  her. 
But  were  she  like  other  women,  and  that  there 
were  any  talking  to  her,  how  constant  nmst 
the  pleasure  of  that  man  be  who  could  con- 
verse with  a  creature —  But,  after  all,  you  may 
be  sure  her  heart  is  fixed  on  some  one  or  other; 
and  yet  I  have  been  ci-edibly  informed, — but 
who  can  believe  half  that  is  said  !  After  she 
had  done  speaking  to  me  she  put  her  hand  to 
her  bosom  and  adjusted  her  tucker.  Then  she 
cast  her  eyes  a  little  down  upon  my  beholding 
her  too  earnestly.  They  say  ghe  sings  excel- 
lently: her  voice  in  her  ordinary  speech  has 
something  in  it  inexpressibly  sweet.  You 
must  know  I  dined  with  her  at  a  public  table 
the  day  after  I  first  saw  her,  and  slie  helped 
me  to  some  tansy  in  the  eye  of  all  the  gentle- 


men in  the  country:  she  has  certainly  the 
finest  hand  of  any  woman  in  the  world.  I  can 
assure  you,  sir,  were  you  to  behold  her,  you 
would  be  in  the  same  condition ;  for  as  her 
speech  is  music,  her  form  is  angelic.  But  I 
find  I  grow  irregular  while  I  am  talking  of 
her ;  but,  indeed,  it  would  be  stupidity  to  be 
unconcerned  at  such  perfection.  Oh  the  ex- 
cellent creature,  she  is  as  inimitable  to  all 
women,  as  she  is  inaccessible  to  all  men." 

I  found  my  friend  begin  to  rave,  and  insen- 
sibly led  him  towards  the  house,  that  we  might 
be  joined  by  some  other  company;  and  am 
convinced  that  the  widow  is  the  secret  cause 
of  all  that  inconsistency  which  appears  in  some 
parts  of  m}^  friend's  discourse ;  though  he  has 
so  much  command  of  himself  as  not  directly  to 
mention  her,  yet  according  to  that  of  Martial, 
which  one  knows  not  how  to  render  in  Eng- 
lish, Dum  tacet  hanc  loquitur.  I  shall  end 
this  paper  with  that  whole  epigram,  which 
represents  with  much  humour  my  honest 
friend's  condition. 

Quicquid  agit  Rufus  nihil  est  nisi  Ntevia  Rufo, 
Si  gaudet,  si  flet,  si  tacet,  hanc  loquitur : 

Coenat,  propinat,  poscit,  negat,  annuit,  una  est 
Ntevia;  si  non  sit  Nsevia  mutus  erit. 

Scriberet  hesterna  Patri  cum  Luce  Salutem, 
Nisvia  lux,  inquit,  Nsevia  lumen,  ave. 

Let  Rufus  weep,  rejoice,  stand,  sit,  or  walk, 
Still  he  can  nothing  but  of  Nsevia  talk ; 
Let  him  eat,  drink,  ask  questions,  or  dispute, 
Still  he  must  speak  of  Nsevia,  or  be  mute. 
He  writ  to  liis  father,  ending  with  tliis  Une, 
I  am,  my  lovely  Nsevia,  ever  thine. 


C  H  A  R  I  T  Y.i 

Charity  is  a  virtue  of  the  heart  and  not  of 
the  hands,  says  an  old  writer.  Gifts  and  alms 
are  the  expressions,  not  the  essence  of  this 
virtue.  A  man  may  bestow  great  sums  on  the 
poor  and  indigent  without  being  charitable, 
and  may  be  charitable  when  he  is  not  able 
to  bestow  anything.  Charity  is  therefore  a 
habit  of  good-will  or  benevolence  in  the  soul, 
which  disposes  us  to  the  love,  assistance,  and 
relief  of  mankind,  especially  of  those  who 
stand  in  need  of  it.  The  poor  man  who  has 
this  excellent  frame  of  mind  is  no  less  intituled 
to  the  reward  of  this  virtue  than  the  man  who 
founds  a  college.  For  my  own  part,  I  am 
charitable  to  an  extravagance  this  way.     I 

1  Xunibcr  IGC  of  The  Onardian. 


SIR  RICHAED  STEELE. 


61 


never  saw  an  indigent  person  in  my  life,  with- 
out reaching  out  to  him  some  of  this  imaginary 
rehef.  1  cannot  but  sym])athize  with  every 
one  I  meet  that  is  in  atHictiun ;  and  if  my 
abilities  were  equal  to  my  wishes,  there  should 
be  neither  pain  nor  poverty  in  the  world. 

To  give  my  reader  a  right  notion  of  myself 
in  this  particular,  I  shall  present  him  with  the 
secret  history  of  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
parts  of  my  life. 

I  was  once  engaged  in  search  of  the  philo- 
sopher's stone.  It  is  frequently  observed  of 
men  who  have  been  busied  in  this  pursuit, 
that  though  they  have  failed  in  their  principal 
design,  they  have  however  made  such  dis- 
coveries in  their  way  to  it  as  have  sufficiently 
recompensed  their  inquiries.  In  the  same 
manner,  though  I  cannot  boast  of  my  success 
in  that  atfair,  I  do  not  repent  of  my  engaging 
in  it,  because  it  pi'oduced  in  my  mind  such  an 
habitual  exercise  of  charity,  as  made  it  much 
better  than  perhaps  it  would  have  been,  had  I 
never  been  lost  in  so  pleasing  a  delusion. 

As  I  did  not  question  but  I  should  soon 
have  a  new  Indies  in  my  possession,  I  was 
perpetually  taken  up  in  considering  how  to 
turn  it  to  the  benefit  of  mankind.  In  order 
to  it  I  employed  a  whole  day  in  walking  about 
this  great  city,  to  find  out  proper  places  for 
the  erection  of  hospitals.  I  had  likewise  en- 
tertained that  project,  which  has  since  suc- 
ceeded in  another  place,  of  building  churches 
at  the  court-end  of  the  town,  with  this  only 
difference,  that  instead  of  fifty,  I  intended  to 
have  built  a  hl^ndred,  and  to  have  seen  them 
all  finished  in  less  than  one  year. 

I  had  with  great  jjains  and  application  got 
together  a  list  of  all  the  French  Protestants ; 
and  by  the  best  accounts  I  could  come  at,  had 
calculated  the  value  of  all  those  estates  and 
effects  which  every  one  of  them  had  left  in  his 
own  country  for  the  sake  of  his  religion,  being 
fully  determined  to  make  it  up  to  him,  and 
return  some  of  them  the  double  of  what  they 
had  lost. 

As  I  was  one  day  in  my  laboratory,  my 
operator,  who  was  to  fill  my  coffers  for  me, 
and  used  to  foot  it  from  the  other  end  of  the 
town  every  morning,  complained  of  a  sprain 
in  his  leg  that  he  had  met  with  over  against 
St.  Clement's  Church.  This  so  affected  me, 
that  as  a  standing  mark  of  my  gratitude  to 
him,  and  out  of  compassion  to  the  rest  of  my 
fellow-citizens,  I  resolved  to  new  pave  every 
street  within  the  liberties,  and  entered  a 
memorandum  in  my  pocket-book  accordingly. 
About   the   same   time   I   entertained    some 


thoughts  of  mending  all  the  highways  on  this 
side  the  Tweed,  and  of  making  all  the  rivei-s 
in  England  navigable. 

But  the  project  I  had  most  at  heart  was 
the  settling  upon  every  man  in  Great  Britain 
three  pounds  a  year  (in  which  sum  may  be 
comprised,  according  to  Sir  William  Pettit's 
observations,  all  the  necessities  of  life),  leaving 
to  them,  whatever  else  they  could  get  by  their 
own  industry  to  lay  out  on  superfluities. 

I  was  above  a  week  debating  in  myself  what 
I  should  do  in  the  matter  of  impropriations ; 
but  at  length  came  to  a  resolution  to  buy  them 
all  up,  and  restore  them  to  the  Church. 

As  I  was  one  day  walking  near  St.  Paul's  I 
took  some  time  to  survey  that  stinicture,  and 
not  being  entirely  satisfied  with  it,  though  I 
could  not  tell  why,  I  had  some  thoughts  of 
pulling  it  down,  and  building  it  up  anew  at 
my  own  expense. 

For  my  own  part,  as  I  have  no  pride  in  me, 
I  intended  to  take  up  with  a  coach  and  six, 
half  a  dozen  footmen,  and  live  like  a  private 
gentleman. 

It  happened  about  this  time  that  public 
matters  looked  very  gloomy,  taxes  came  hard, 
the  war  went  on  heavily,  people  complained 
of  the  great  burdens  that  were  laid  upon  them. 
This  made  me  resolve  to  set  aside  one  morning 
to  consider  seriously  the  state  of  the  nation. 
I  was  the  more  ready  to  enter  on  it,  because 
I  was  obliged,  whether  I  would  or  no,  to  sit 
at  home  in  my  morning  gown,  having,  after  a 
most  incredible  expense,  pawned  a  new  suit 
of  clothes  and  a  full-bottomed  wng  for  a  sum 
of  money  which  my  operator  assured  me  was 
the  last  he  should  want  to  make  all  our  mat- 
ters to  bear.  After  having  considered  many 
projects,  I  at  length  resolved  to  beat  the  com- 
mon enemy  at  his  own  weapons,  and  laid  a 
scheme  which  would  have  blown  him  up  in  a 
quarter  of  a  year,  had  things  succeeded  to  my 
wishes.  As  I  was  in  this  golden  dream  some- 
body knocked  at  my  door.  I  opened  it  and 
found  it  was  a  messenger  that  brought  me  a 
letter  from  the  laboratory.  The  fellow  looked 
so  miserably  poor  that  I  was  resolved  to  make 
his  fortune  before  he  delivered  his  message. 
But  seeing  he  brought  a  letter  from  my  oper- 
ator, I  concluded  I  was  bound  to  it  in  honour, 
as  much  as  a  prince  is  to  give  a  reward  to  one 
that  brings  him  the  first  news  of  a  victory. 
I  knew  this  was  the  long-expected  hour  of 
projection,  and  which  I  had  waited  for  with 
gi-eat  impatience  above  half  a  year  before.  In 
short,  I  broke  open  my  letter  in  a  transport  of 
joy,  and  found  it  as  follows  : — 


62 


SIR  RICHARD  STEELE. 


"  Sir, — After  having  got  out  of  you  every- 
thing you  can  conveniently  spare,  I  scorn  to 
trespass  upon  your  generous  nature,  and  there- 
fore must  ingenuously  confess  to  you  that  I 
know  no  more  of  the  philosopher's  stone  than 
you  do.  I  shall  only  tell  you  for  your  comfort 
that  I  never  yet  could  bubble  a  blockhead  out 
of  his  money.  They  must  be  men  of  wit  and 
parts  who  are  for  my  purpose.  This  made  me 
apply  myself  to  a  person  of  your  wealth  and 
ingenuity.  How  I  have  succeeded  you  your- 
self can  best  tell. — Your  humble  servant  to 
command,  "Thomas  White. 

"  I  have  locked  up  the  laboratoi-y  and  laid 
the  key  under  the  door." 

I  was  very  much  shocked  at  the  unworthy 
treatment  of  this  man,  and  not  a  little  morti- 
fied at  my  disappointment,  though  not  so  much 
for  what  I  myself,  as  what  the  public  suflfered 
by  it.  I  think,  however,  I  ought  to  let  the 
world  know  what  I  designed  for  them,  and 
hope  that  such  of  my  readers  who  find  they 
had  a  share  in  my  good  intentions  will  accept 
of  the  will  for  the  deed. 


THE   OLD   STYLE   AND   THE  NEW. 

(FROM   "THE   CONSCIOUS   LOVERS.") 

Humphrey.  0,  here's  the  prince  of  poor  cox- 
combs, the  representative  of  all  the  better  fed 
than  taught  I — Ho,  ho,  Tom  !  whither  so  gay 
and  so  airy  this  morning? 

Enter  Tom,  singing. 

Tom.  Sir,  we  servants  of  single  gentlemen 
are  another  kind  of  people  than  you  domestic 
ordinary  drudges  that  do  business;  we  are 
raised  above  you :  the  pleasures  of  board  wages, 
tavern  dinners,  and  many  a  clear  gain,  vails, 
alas !  you  never  heard  or  dreamt  of. 

Humph.  Thou  hast  follies  and  vices  enough 
for  a  man  of  ten  thousand  a  year,  though  it 
is  but  as  t'other  day  that  I  sent  for  you  to 
town  to  put  you  into  Mr.  Sealand's  family, 
that  you  might  learn  a  little  before  I  put  you 
to  my  young  master,  who  is  too  gentle  for 
training  such  a  rude  thing  as  you  were  into 

proper  obedience. You  then  pulled  off  your 

hat  to  every  one  you  met  in  the  street,  like  a 
biishful,  great,  awkward  cub,  aa  you  were. 
But  your  great  oaken  cudgel,  when  you  were 
a  booljy,  became  you  much  better  than  that 
dangling  stick  at  your  button,  now  you  are  a 


fop,  that's  fit  for  nothing,  except  it  hangs  there 
to  be  ready  for  your  master's  hand,  when  you 
are  impertinent. 

Tom.  Uncle  Humjihrey,  you  know  my 
master  scorns  to  strike  his  servants ;  you  talk 
as  if  the  world  was  now  just  as  it  was  when 
my  old  master  and  you  were  in  your  youth — • 
when  you  went  to  dinner  because  it  was  so 
much  o'clock,  when  the  great  blow  was  given 
in  the  hall  at  the  pantry  door,  and  all  the 
family  came  out  of  their  holes  in  such  strange 
dresses  and  formal  faces  as  you  see  in  the  pic- 
tures in  our  long  gallery  in  the  country. 

Humph.  Why,  you  wild  rogue  ! 

Tom.  You  could  not  fall  to  your  dinner, 
till  a  formal  fellow  in  a  black  gown  said  some- 
thing over  the  meat,  as  if  the  cook  had  not 
made  it  ready  enough. 

Humph.  Sirrah,  who  do  you  prate  after? — 
despising  men  of  sacred  characters !  I  hope 
you  never  heard  my  young  master  talk  so  like 
a  profligate. 

Tom.  Sir,  I  say  you  put  upon  me  when  I 
first  came  to  town  about  being  orderly,  and 
the  doctrine  of  wearing  shams,  to  make  linen 
last  clean  a  fortnight,  keeping  my  clothes  fresh, 
and  wearing  a  frock  within  doors. 

Humph.  Sirrah,  I  gave  you  those  lessons, 
because  I  supposed  at  that  time  your  master 
and  you  might  have  dined  at  home  every  day, 
and  cost  you  nothing;  then  you  might  have 
made  you  a  good  family  servant ;  but  the  gang 
you  have  frequented  since,  at  chocolate  houses 
and  taverns,  in  a  continual  round  of  noise  and 
extravagance 

Tom.  I  don't  know  what  you  heavy  in- 
mates call  noise  and  extravagance;  but  we 
gentlemen,  who  are  well  fed,  and  cut  a  figure, 
sir,  think  it  a  fine  life,  and  that  we  must  be 
very  pretty  fellows,  who  are  kept  only  to  be 
looked  at. 

Humph.  Yery  well,  sir — I  hope  the  fashion 
of  being  lewd  and  extravagant,  despising  of 
decency  and  order,  is  almost  at  an  end,  since 
it  is  arrived  at  persons  of  your  quality. 

Tom.  Master  Humphrey,  ha !  ha  !  you  were 
an  unhappy  lad,  to  be  sent  up  to  town  in  such 
queer  days  as  you  were.  Why  now,  sir,  the 
lackeys  are  the  men  of  pleasure  of  the  age; 
the  top  gamesters,  and  many  a  laced  coat 
about  town,  have  had  their  education  in  our 
party-coloured  regiment. — We  are  false  lovers, 
have  a  taste  of  music,  poetiy,  billet  doux, 
dress,  politics,  ruin  damsels  ;  and  when  we  are 
weary  of  this  lewd  town,  and  have  a  mind  to 
take  up,  whip  into  our  masters'  clothes,  and 
marry  fortunes. 


SIR  RICHARD  STEELE. 


63 


Humph.  Sirrah,  there  is  no  enduring  your 
extravagance ;  I'll  hear  you  prate  no  longer : 
I  wanted  to  see  you,  to  inquire  how  things  go 
with  your  master,  as  far  as  you  understand 
them :  I  suppose  he  knows  he  is  to  be  man-ied 
to-day. 

Tom.  Ay,  sir,  he  knows  it,  and  is  dressed 
as  gay  as  the  sun ;  but  between  you  and  I,  my 
dear,  he  has  a  very  heavy  heart  under  all  that 
gaiety.  As  soon  as  he  was  dressed  I  retired, 
but  overheai'd  him  sigh  in  the  most  heavy 
manner.  He  walked  thoughtfully  to  and  fro 
in  the  room,  then  went  into  his  closet :  when 
he  came  out,  he  gave  me  this  for  his  mistress, 
whose  maid,  you  know 

Humph.  Is  passionately  fond  of  your  fine 
person. 

Tom.  The  poor  fool  is  so  tender,  and  loves 
to  hear  me  talk  of  the  world,  and  the  plays, 
operas,  and  masquerades  ;  and  lard  !  says  she, 
you  are  so  wild^ — but  you  have  a  world  of 
humour. 

Humph.  Coxcomb  !  "Well,  but  why  don't  you 
run  with  your  master's  letter  to  Mrs.  Lucinda, 
as  he  ordei-ed  you? 

Tom.  Because  Mrs.  Lucinda  is  not  so  easily 
come  at  as  you  think  for. 

Humph.  Not  easily  come  at?  why,  sir,  are 
not  her  father  and  my  old  master  agreed  that 
she  and  Mr.  Bevil  are  to  be  one  flesh  before 
to-morrow  morning? 

^07)1.  It's  no  matter  for  that :  her  mother, 
it  seems,  Mi-s.  Sealand,  has  not  agreed  to  it ; 
and  you  must  know,  Mr.  Humphrey,  that  in 
that  family  the  gray  mai-e  is  the  better 
horse. 

Humph.  "What  dost  thou  mean? 

Tom.  In  one  word,  Mrs.  Sealand  pretends 
to  have  a  will  of  her  own,  and  has  provided  a 
relation  of  here,  a  stiff  starched  philosopher 
and  a  wise  fool,  for  her  daughter ;  for  which 
reason,  for  these  ten  days  past,  she  has  suff"ered 
no  message  nor  letter  from  my  master  to  come 
near  her. 

Humph.  And  where  had  you  this  intelli- 
gence ? 

Tom.  From  a  foolish  fond  soul,  that  can 
keep  nothing  from  me — one  that  will  deliver 
this  letter  too,  if  she  is  rightly  managed. 

Humph.  "What,  her  pretty  handmaid,  Mrs. 
Phillis? 

2'o?u.  Even  she,  sir.  This  is  the  very  hour, 
you  know,  she  usually  comes  hither,  under  a 
pretence  of  a  visit  to  our  housekeeper,  for- 
sooth, but  in  reality  to  have  a  glance  at ■ 

Humph.  Your  sweet  face,  I  warrant  you. 

Tom.  Nothing  else  in  nature.     You  must 


know  I  love  to  fret  and  ])lay  with  the  little 
wanton 

Humph.  Play  with  the  little  wanton  !  what 
will  this  world  come  to  I 

Tom.  I  met  her  this  morning  in  a  new 
gown,  not  a  bit  the  worse  for  her  lady's  wear- 
ing, and  she  has  always  new  thoughts  and  new 
aii-s  with  new  clothes — then  she  never  fails  to 
steal  some  glance  or  gesture  from  every  visit- 
ant at  their  house,  and   is  indeed  the  whole 

town  of  coquettes  at  second  hand —But  here 

she  comes ;  in  one  motion  she  speaks  and  de- 
scribes herself  better  than  all  the  words  in  the 
world  can. 

Humph.  Then  I  hope,  dear  sir,  when  your 
own  affair  is  over,  you  will  be  so  good  as  to 
mind  your  master's  with  her. 

Tom.  Dear  Humphrey  !  you  know  my  mas- 
ter is  my  friend,  and  those  are  people  I  never 
forget 

Humph.  Sauciness  itself !  but  I'll  leave  you 
to  do  your  best  for  him.  [Exit. 


A   ROMANTIC   YOUNG  LADY. 

(FROM    "THE   TENDER   HUSBAND.") 

[Aunt,  who  desires  her  niece  to  marry  her 
cousin  Humphrey  Gubbin;  she  loves  a  Cap- 
tain Clerimont,  and  determines  to  cut  her 
cousin.] 

Enter  Aunt  and  Niece. 

Niece.  "Was  it  not  my  gallant  that  whistled 
so  charmingly  in  the  parlour  before  we  went 
out  this  morning?  He's  a  most  accomplished 
cavalier ! 

Aunt.  Come,  niece,  come ;  you  don't  do  well 
to  make  sport  of  your  relations,  especially 
with  a  young  gentleman  that  has  so  much 
kindness  for  you. 

Niece.  Kindness  for  me  !  "What  a  phrase  is 
there  to  express  the  darts  and  flames,  the  sighs 
and  languishings  of  an  expecting  lover  ! 

Aunt.  Pray,  niece,  forbear  this  idle  trash, 
and  talk  like  other  people.  Your  cousin 
Humphrey  will  be  true  and  hearty  in  what 
he  says,  and  that's  a  great  deal  better  than  the 
talk  and  compliment  of  romances. 

Niece.  Good  madam,  don't  wound  my  ears 
with  such  expressions;  do  you  think  I  can 
ever  love  a  man  that's  true  and  hearty  ?  Pray, 
aunt,  endeavour  a  little  at  the  embellishment 
of  your  style. 

Aunt.  Alack-a-day  !  cousin  Biddy,  these  idle 
romances  have  quite  turned  your  head. 


64 


SIR  RICHARD   STEELE. 


Niece.  How  often  must  I  desire  you,  madam, 
to  lay  aside  that  familiar  name,  cousin  Biddy] 
I  never  hear  it  without  blushing.  Did  you 
ever  meet  with  a  heroine,  in  those  idle 
romances,  as  you  caU  'em,  that  was  termed 
Biddy? 

Aunt.  Ah !  cousin,  cousin,  these  are  mere 
vapours,  indeed ;  nothing  but  vapours. 

Niece.  No;  the  heroine  has  always  some- 
thing soft  and  engaging  in  her  name ;  some- 
thing that  gives  us  a  notion  of  the  sweetness 
of  her  beauty  and  behaviour.  A  name  that 
glides  through  half-a-dozen  tender  syllables, 
as  Elismunda,  Clidamira,  Deidamia,  that  runs 
upon  vowels  of  the  tongue,  not  hissing  tlirough 
one's  teeth,  or  breaking  them  with  consonants. 
'Tis  strange  rudeness,  those  familiar  names 
they  give  us,  when  there  is  Aurelia,  Sacchar- 
issa,  Gloriana,  for  people  of  condition,  and 
Cella,  Chloi'is,  Corinna,  Mopsa,  for  their  maids 
and  those  of  lower  rank. 

Aunt.  Lookye !  Biddy,  this  is  not  to  be 
supported ;  I  know  not  where  you  have  learned 
this  nicety;  but  I  can  tell  you,  forsooth,  as 
much  as  you  despise  it,  your  mother  was  a 
Bridget  afore  you,  and  an  excellent  house- 
wife. 

Niece.  Good  madam,  don't  upbraid  me  wath 
my  mother  Bridget,  and  an  excellent  house- 
wife. 

Aunt.  Yes,  I  say,  she  was ;  and  spent  her 
time  in  bettei-  learning  than  ever  you  did ;  not 
in  reading  of  iights  and  battles  of  dwarfs  and 
giants,  but  in  writing  out  receipts  for  broths, 
possets,  caudles,  and  surfeit-waters,  as  became 
a  good  country  gentlewoman. 

Niece.  My  mother,  and  a  Bridget ! 

Aunt.  Yes,  niece ;  I  say  again — your  mother, 
my  sister,  was  a  Bridget.  The  daughter  of 
her  mother  Margery,  of  her  mother  Cicely,  of 
her  mother  Alice — 

Niece.  Have  you  no  mercy?  Oh,  the  bar- 
barous genealogy! 

Aunt.  Of  her  mother  Winifred,  of  lier 
mother  Joan — 

Niece.  Since  you  will  run  on,  then,  I  must 
needs  tell  you  I  am  not  satisfied  in  the  point 
of  my  nativity.  Many  an  infant  has  been 
placed  in  a  cottage  with  obscure  parents,  till, 
by  chance,  some  ancient  servant  of  the  family 
has  known  it  by  its  marks. 

Aunt.  Ay,  you  had  best  be  searched. 
That's  like  your  calling  the  winds  the  fanning 
gales,  before  I  don't  know  how  much  company; 
and  the  tree  tliat  was  blown  by  them  had,  for- 
sooth, a  spirit  imprisoned  in  the  trunk  of  it. 

Niece.  Ignorance ! 


Aunt.  Then,  a  cloud,  this  morning,  had  a 
flying  dragon  in  it. 

Niece.  What  eyes  had  you  that  you  could 
see  nothing?  For  my  part  I  look  upon  it  as  a 
prodigy,  and  expect  something  extraordinary 
will  happen  to  me  before  night.  But  you 
have  a  gross  relish  of  things.  What  noble 
descriptions  in  romances  had  been  lost  if  the 
writers  had  been  persons  of  your  gout  I 

Aimt.  I  wish  the  authors  had  been  hanged, 
and  their  books  burnt,  before  you  had  seen 
them. 

Niece.  Simjjlicity ! 

Au)it.  A  parcel  of  improbable  lies — 

Niece.  Indeed,  madam,  your  raillery  is 
coarse. 

Aunt.  Fit  only  to  corrupt  young  girls,  and 
turn  their  heads  with  a  thousand  foolish 
dreams  of  I  don't  know  what. 

Niece.  Nay,  now,  madam,  you  grow  extra- 
vagant. 

Aunt.  Wliat  I  say  is  not  to  vex,  but  advise 
you  for  your  good. 

Niece.  What,  to  burn  Philocles,  Artax- 
erxes,  Oroondates,  and  the  rest  of  the  heroic 
lovers ;  and  take  my  country  booby,  cousin 
Humphi-ey,  for  a  husband. 

Aunt.  Oh,  dear  !  oh,  dear !  Biddy,  pray, 
good  dear,  learn  to  act  and  speak  like  the  rest 
of  the  world;  come,  come,  you  shall  marry 
your  cousin,  and  live  comfortably. 

Niece.  Live  comfortably!  What  kind  of 
life  is  that  ?  A  great  heiress  live  comfortably ! 
Pray,  aunt,  learn  to  raise  your  ideas.  What 
is,  I  wonder,  to  live  comfortably? 

Aunt.  To  live  comfortably  is  to  live  with 
prudence  and  frugality,  as  we  do  in  Lombard 
Street. 

Niece.  As  we  do  !  That's  a  fine  life,  indeed! 
with  one  servant  of  each  sex.  Let  us  see  how 
many  things  our  coachman  is  good  for.  He 
rubs  down  his  horses,  lays  the  cloth,  whets  the 
knives,  and  sometimes  makes  beds. 

Aunt.  A  good  servant  should  turn  his  hand 
to  everything  in  a  family. 

Niece.  Nay,  there's  not  a  creature  in  our 
family  that  has  not  two  or  three  difi'erent 
duties — as  John  is  butler,  footman,  and  coach- 
man, so  Mary  is  cook,  laundress,  and  cham- 
bermaid. 

Aunt.  Well,  and  do  you  laugh  at  that? 

Niece.  No,  not  I;  nor  at  the  coach-horses, 
though  one  has  an  easy  trot  for  my  uncle's 
riding,  and  t'other  an  easy  pace  for  your  side- 
saddle. 

Aunt.  And  so  you  jeer  at  the  good  manage- 
ment of  your  relations,  do  you? 


SIR   RICHARD   STEELE. 


65 


Niece.  No,  I  am  well  satisfied  that  all  the 
liouse  are  creatures  of  business ;  but,  indeed, 
was  in  hopes  that  my  poor  lap-dog  might  have 
lived  with  me  upon  my  fortune  without  an 
emj)loyment;  but  my  uncle  threatens  every 
day  to  make  him  a  turns[)it,  tliat  he,  too,  in 
his  sphere,  may  help  us  to  live  comfortably. 

Aunt.  Harkye!  cousin  Biddy    - 

Niece.  I  vow  I'm  out  of  countenance  when 
our  butler,  with  his  careful  face,  drives  us  all 
stowed  in  a  chariot,  drawn  by  one  horse 
ambling  and  t'other  trotting,  with  his  pro- 
visions behind  for  the  family,  from  Saturday 
night  till  Monday  morning,  bound  for  Hack- 
ney. Then  we  make  a  comfortable  figure, 
indeed. 

Aunt.  So  we  do;  and  so  will  you  always,  if 
you  marry  your  cousin  Humphrey. 

Niece.  Name  not  the  creature. 

A^mt.  Creature !  What,  your  own  cousin 
a  creature ! 

Enter  Humphrey  Gubbin. 

Hump.  Aunt,  your  humble  servant.  Is 
that  he — eh,  aunt? 

Aunt.  Yes,  cousin  Humphrey;  that's  your 
cousin  Bridget.    Well,  I'll  leave  you  together. 

[Exit. 

Hump.  Aunt  does  as  she'd  be  done  by, 
cousin  Bridget,  doesn't  she,  eh,  cousin?  What, 
are  you  a  Londoner  and  not  speak  to  a  gentle- 
man ?  Lookye  !  cousin,  the  old  folks  resolving 
to  marry  us,  I  thought  it  would  be  proper  to 
see  how  I  liked  you,  as  not  caring  to  buy  a 
pig  in  a  poke,  for  I  love  to  look  before  I 
leap. 

Niece.  Sir,  your  person  and  address  brings 
to  my  mind  the  whole  history  of  Valentine 
and  Orson.  What,  would  they  marry  me  to 
a  wild  man  ]  Pray,  answer  me  a  question  or 
two. 

Hump.  Ay,  ay;  as  many  as  you  please, 
cousin  Bridget. 

Niece.  What  wood  were  you  taken  in  I 
How  long  have  you  been  caught? 

Hump.  Caught ! 

Niece.  Where  were  your  haimts? 

Hump.  My  haunts? 

Niece.  Are  not  clothes  very  uneasy  to  you  I 
Is  this  strange  dress  the  first  you  ever  wore  ? 

Hump.  How ! 

Niece.  Are  you  not  a  great  admirer  of  roots 
and  raw  flesh?  Let  me  look  upon  your  nails. 
Don't  you  love  blackberries,  haws,  and  pig- 
nuts mightily? 

Hump.  How! 


Niece.  Canst  thou  deny  that  thou  wert 
suckled  by  a  wolf  ?  You  haven't  been  so  bar- 
barous, I  hope,  since  you  came  amongst  men 
as  to  hunt  your  nui-se,  have  you? 

Hump.  Hunt  my  nurse  !  Ay,  'tis  so ;  she's 
distracted,  as  sure  as  a  gun.  {Aside.)  Harkye! 
cousin,  pray  will  you  let  me  ask  you  a  ques- 
tion or  two  ? 

Niece.  If  thou  hast  yet  learned  the  use  of 
language,  speak,  monster. 

Hump.  How  long  have  you  been  thus? 

Niece.  Thus  1     What  wouldst  thou  say  ? 

Hump.  What's  the  cause  of  it?  Tell  me 
truly,  now.  Did  you  never  love  anybody 
before  me? 

Niece.  Go,  go ;  thou'rt  a  savage. 

Hump.  They  never  let  you  go  abroad,  I 
supi^ose. 

Niece.  Thou'rt  a  monster,  I  tell  thee. 

Hump.  Indeed,  cousin,  though  'tis  folly  to 
tell  thee  so,  I  am  afraid  thou  art  a  mad 
woman. 

Niece.  I'll  have  thee  into  some  forest. 

Hump.  I'll  take  thee  into  a  dark  room. 

Niece.  I  hate  thee. 

Hump.  I  wish  you  did  ;  there's  no  hate  lost, 
I  assui'e  you,  cousin  Bridget. 

Niece.  Cousin  Bridget,  quotha !  I'd  as  soon 
claim  kindred  with  a  mountain  bear.  I  detest 
thee. 

Hump.  You  never  do  any  harm  in  those  fits, 
I  hope.     But  do  you  hate  me  in  earnest? 

Niece.  Dost  thou  ask  it,  ungentle  forester? 

Hump.  Yes ;  for  I've  a  reason,  lookye  1  It 
happens  very  well  if  you  hate  me,  and  are  in 
your  senses ;  for  to  tell  you  truly,  I  don't  much 
care  for  you  ;  and  there  is  another  fine  woman, 
as  I  am  informed,  that  is  in  some  hopes  of 
having  me. 

Niece.  This  merits  my  attention.        [Aside. 

Hump.  Lookye  !  d'ye  see?  as  I  said,  I  don't 
care  for  you.  I  would  not  have  you  set  your 
heart  on  me;  but,  if  you  like  anybody  else, 
let  me  know  it,  and  I'll  find  out  a  way  for  us 
to  get  rid  of  one  another,  and  deceive  the  old 
folks  that  would  couple  us. 

Niece.  This  weai-s  the  face  of  an  amour. 
(Aside.)  There  is  something  in  that  thought 
which  makes  thy  presence  less  insupportable. 

Hump.  Nay,  nay;  now  you're  growing  fond; 
if  you  come  with  these  maid's  tricks,  to  say 
you  hate  at  first,  and  afterwards  like  me,  you'll 
spoil  the  whole  design. 

Niece.  Don't  fear  it.  When  I  think  of  con- 
sorting with  thee,  may  the  wild  boar  defile 
the  cleanly  ermine  1  May  the  tiger  be  wed- 
ded to  the  kid ! 


66 


SIR  EICHARD   STEELE. 


Hump.  When  I  of  thee,  may  the  polecat 
caterwaul  with  the  civet ! 

Niece.  When  I  harbour  the  least  thought 
of  thee,  may  the  silver  Thames  forget  its 
course ! 

Hump.  When  I  like  thee,  may  I  be  soused 
over  head  and  ears  in  a  horse-pond  !  But  do 
you  hate  me? 

Enter  Aunt. 

Niece.  Forever;  and  you  me? 

Hump.  Most  heartily. 

Aunt.  Ha!  I  like  this.  They  are  come  to 
promises  and  protestations.  \Aside. 

Hump.  I  am  very  glad  I  have  found  a  way 
to  please  you. 

Niece.  You  promise  to  be  constant? 

Hump.  Till  death. 

Niece.  Thou  best  of  savages ! 

Hump.  Thou  best  of  savages  !  Poor  Biddy ! 

[Humphrey  and  Niece  seated,  and  Captain 
Clerimont,  disguised  as  an  artist,  is  introduced 
by  the  Aunt  to  take  her  niece's  portrait.  As 
he  proceeds  with  his  sketch  he  talks  as  fol- 
lows:— ] 

Cap.  Ladies,  have  you  heard  the  news  of  a 
late  marriage  between  a  young  lady  of  a  great 
fortune  and  a  younger  brother  of  a  good  fa- 
mily? 

Aunt.  Pray,  sir,  how  is  it? 

Cap.  This  young  gentleman,  ladies,  is  a  par- 
ticular acquaintance  of  mine,  and  much  about 
my  age  and  stature — look  me  full  in  the  face, 
madam.  He  accidentally  met  the  young  lady, 
who  had  in  her  all  the  perfections  of  her  sex — 
hold  up  your  head,  madam  ;  that's  right.  She 
let  him  know  that  his  person  and  discourse 
were  not  altogether  disagreeable  to  her;  the 
difficulty  was  how  to  gain  a  second  interview 
— your  eyes  full  upon  mine,  madam.  For 
never  was  there  such  a  sigher  in  all  the  valleys 
of  Arcadia  as  that  unfortunate  youth  during 
the  absence  of  her  he  loved. 

Aunt.  Alack-a-day  !  poor  young  gentleman  ! 

Niece.  It  must  be  him — what  a  charming 
amour  is  this.  [^Aside. 

Cap.  At  length,  ladies,  he  bethought 
himself  of  an  expedient :  he  dressed  himself 
just  as  I  am  now,  and  came  to  draw  her 
picture. — Your  eyes  full  upon  mine,  pray, 
madam. 

Hump.  A  subtle  dog,  I  warrant  him. 


Cap.  And  by  that  means  found  an  oppor- 
tunity of  carrying  her  oif,  and  marrying  her. 

Aunt.  Indeed,  your  friend  was  a  very  vicious 
young  man. 

Niece.  Yet,  perhaps  the  young  lady  was 
not  displeased  at  what  he  had  done. 

Cap.  But,  madam,  what  were  the  transports 
of  the  lover  when  she  made  him  that  confes- 
sion! 

Niece.  I  dare  say  she  thought  herself  very 
happy  when  she  got  out  of  her  guardian's 
hands. 

Aunt.  'Tis  very  true,  niece;  there  is  abun- 
dance of  those  headstrong  young  baggages 
about  town. 

Cap.  The  gentleman  has  often  told  me  he 
was  strangely  struck  at  first  sight ;  but  when 
she  sat  to  him  for  her  picture,  and  assumed  all 
those  graces  that  are  proper  for  the  occasion, 
his  torment  was  so  exquisite,  his  sensations  so 
violent,  that  he  could  not  have  lived  a  day, 
had  he  not  found  means  to  make  the  charmer 
of  his  heart  his  own. 

Hump.  'Tis  certainly  the  foolishest  thing  in 
the  world  to  stand  shilly-shally  about  a  woman 
when  he  had  a  mind  to  marry  her. 

Cap.  The  young  painter  turned  poet  on  the 
subject ;  I  believe  I  have  the  words  by  heart. 

Niece.  A  sonnet !    Pray,  repeat  it. 

Cap.  When  gentle  Parthenissa  walks, 

And  sweetly  smiles,  and  gaily  talks, 
A  thousand  shafts  around  her  fly, 
A  thousand  swains  unheeded  die. 

If,  then,  she  labours  to  be  seen 
With  all  her  killing  air  and  mien; 
For  so  much  beauty,  so  much  art, 
What  mortal  can  secure  his  heart? 

Aunt.  Why,  this  is  pretty.  I  think  a 
painter  should  never  be  without  poetry ;  it 
brightens  the  features  strangely.  I  profess 
I'm  mightily  pleased.  I'll  but  just  step  in  and 
give  some  orders,  and  be  with  you  presently. 

{Exit. 

[While  the  Aunt  is  absent  the  Captain 
throws  off  his  disguise  and  proposes  an  elope- 
ment. Humphrey  promises  to  assist,  and  the 
matter  is  cleverly  carried  out,  while  Humph- 
rey's marriage  with  the  lady  of  his  choice 
reconciles  all  parties  to  the  marriage  of  the 
Niece  to  Cajjtain  Clerimont.] 


MRS.  CONSTANTIA  GRIEESON. 


67 


MRS.    CONSTANTIA    GRTERSON. 

BoKN  1706  — Died  1733. 


[Constantia  Grierson,  a  very  extraordinary 
woman,  says  an  old  biographer,  was  born  in 
the  county  of  Kilkenny,  in  the  year  1706. 
Her  parents  were  poor,  and  from  an  early  age 
she  had  to  assist  in  supporting  the  family  by 
needlework,  "to  which  she  was  closely  kept 
by  her  mother  ".  However,  with  a  little  as- 
sistance from  the  minister  of  hei'  parish,  she 
early  acquired  a  scholarlike  knowledge  of 
Greek  and  Roman  language  and  liteiature, 
besides  being  well  versed  in  history,  divinity, 
philosophy,  and  mathematics.  A  proof  of  her 
knowledge  of  Latin  may  be  seen  in  her 
dedication  of  the  Dublin  edition  of  Tacitus 
to  Lord  Carteret ;  her  Greek  knowledge  is 
displayed  in  an  epigram  addressed  to  Lord 
Carteret's  son.  Mrs.  Pilkington  says  that 
"  when  about  eighteen  years  of  age,  Con- 
stantia was  brought  to  her  father  to  be 
instructed  in  midwifery ;  that  she  was  mis- 
tress of  Hebrew,  Greek,  Latin,  and  French, 
and  understood  mathematics  as  well  as  most 
men ".  While  still  young  she  was  married 
to  Mr.  Grierson,  who  soon  after  obtained  a 
patent  as  king's  printer.  In  this  patent,  as 
a  reward  for  her  great  merits.  Lord  Carteret 
caused  her  life  also  to  be  inserted.  This 
provision,  however,  was  never  of  any  use, 
for  she  died  in  1733,  when  only  twenty-seven 
years  of  age,  regretted  by  all  who  knew  her. 

This  vei\y  charming  specimen  of  the  learned 
lady  would  seem  to  be  a  precursor  of  work- 
ing women  of  to-day.  From  the  time  of 
Juliana  Berness,  the  prioress  of  a  convent, 
who  wrote  the  Treatise  on  Hawking,  letters 
were  the  privilege  of  the  leisured  woman. 
The  Muse  was  a  fine  lady,  and  visited  in  her 
own  set.  The  Countess  of  Newcastle,  "  the 
Matchless  Orinda ",  and  such  accomplished 
dames,  took  to  verse-writing  as  an  appanage 
of  their  condition.  But  here  is  a  daughter 
of  the  people  as  accomplished  as  any. 

In  the  few  years  of  her  married  life  Mrs. 
Grierson  wrote  several  graceful  poems,  and 
there  is  no  doubt  had  she  lived  she  would 
have  given  to  the  world  something  it  would 
not  willingly  let  die.  As  it  is,  the  majority 
of  her  verses  are  to  be  found  in  Mrs.  Barber's 
volume  of  poems,  while  several  have  been 
lost,  and  some  are  only  to  be  discovered  after 
weary  search  among  broadsides,  tracts,  and 
ephemeral  publications  of  the  period.] 


AT   A   COUNTRY  ASSIZE. 

TO    MISS    LAETITIA    VAN    LAVEN,    AFTERWABD8 
MRS.    PILKINGTON. 

The  fleeting  birds  may  soon  in  ocean  swim, 

And  northern  whales  through  liquid  azure  skim, 

The  Dublin  ladies  their  intrigues  forsake, 

To  dress  and  scandal  an  aversion  take  ; 

When  you  can  in  the  lonely  forest  walk, 

And  with  some  serious  matron  gravely  talk 

Of  possets,  poultices,  and  waters  still'd. 

And  monstrous  casks  with  mead  and  cyder  fill'd ; 

How  many  hives  of  bees  she  has  in  store, 

And  how  much  fruit  her  trees  this  summer  bore; 

Or  home  returning  in  the  yard  can  stand 

And  feed  the  chickens  from  your  bounteous  hand; 

Of  each  one's  top-knot  tell,  and  hatching  pry, 

Like  Tully  waiting  for  an  augury. 

When  night  approaches  down  to  table  sit 
With  a  great  crowd,  choice  meat,  and  little  wit : 
What  horse  won  the  last  race,  how  mighty  Tray 
At  the  last  famous  hunting  caught  the  prey ; 
Surely  you  can't  but  such  discourse  despise, 
Methinks  I  see  displeasure  in  your  eyes: 
0  my  Laetitia,  stay  no  longer  there, 
You'll  soon  forget  that  you  yourself  are  fair; 
Why  will  you  keep  from  us,  from  all  that's  gay. 
There  in  a  lonely  solitude  to  stay? 
Where  not  a  mortal  through  the  year  you  view, 
But  bob-wigged  hunters,  who  their  game  pursue 
With  so  much  ardour,  they'd  a  cock  or  hare 
To  thee  in  all  thy  blooming  charms  prefer. 

You  write  of  belles  and  beaux  that  there  appear. 
And  gilded  coaches  such  as  glitter  here; 
For  gilded  coaches,  each  elated  clown 
That  gravely  slumbers  on  the  bench  has  one. 
But  beaux !     They're  young  attorneys,  sure,  you 

mean, 
Who  thus  appear  to  your  romantic  brain. 
Alas !  no  mortal  there  can  talk  to  you, 
That  love,  or  wit,  or  softness  ever  knew; 
All  they  can  speak  of  is  capias  and  law, 
And  writs  to  keep  the  country  fools  in  awe; 
And  if  to  wit  or  courtship  they  pretend, 
'Tis  the  same  way  that  they  a  cause  defend, 
In  which  they  give  of  lungs  a  vast  expense. 
But  little  passion,  thought,  or  eloquence: 
Bad  as  they  arc,  they'll  soon  abandon  you, 
And  gain  and  clamour  in  the  town  pursue, 
So  haste  to  town,  if  even  such  fools  you  prize, 
0  haste  to  town!  and  bless  the  longing  eyes 
Of  your  Constantia. 


68 


WILLIAM   CONGEEVE. 


WILLIAM    CONGREVE. 

Born  1672 -Died  1729. 


[It  is  alleged  that  an  objection  on  the  part 
of  Congreve  to  being  known  as  an  Irishman 
ia  responsible  for  a  certain  confusion  about 
the  date  of  his  birth.  He  liked  to  be  re- 
garded as  a  man  of  fashion  rather  than  of 
letters,  as  he  told  Voltaire,  and  no  doubt  it 
was  unfashionable  to  be  Irish-born,  however 
descended. 

William  Congreve,  then,  was  born  in  Ire- 
land in  1672,  where,  and  at  which  time,  his 
father  was  steward  to  the  Earl  of  Burlington. 
At  a  very  early  age  he  was  sent  to  school  at 
Kilkenny;  afterwards  to  the  University  of 
Dublin,  where  he  displayed  great  precocity 
and  studied  with  success.  Shortly  after  the 
Revolution  of  1688,  while  he  was  yet  in  his 
seventeenth  year,  his  father  sent  him  over  to 
London,  where  he  was  placed  in  the  Middle 
Temple,  and  "where  ",  says  Johnson,  "he  lived 
for  several  years,  but  with  very  little  attention 
to  statutes  or  reports".  Soon  after  taking  up 
his  abode  in  the  Temple  he  produced  his  first 
work,  a  novel  called  Incognita ;  or  Love  and 
Duty  Reconciled.  Several  biographers  praise 
this  work  as  showing  vivacity  of  wit  and 
fluency  of  style,  and  Johnson  speaks  of  some 
quotations  from  it  as  "  for  such  a  time  of  life 
uncommonly  judicious".  He,  however,  adds, 
"  I  would  rather  praise  it  than  read  it ". 

While  Incognita  was  being  talked  over  by 
the  critics  Congreve  composed  his  first  dra- 
matic work,  The  Old  Bachelor,  which,  with 
foolish  affectation,  he  declares  he  wrote  with 
"  little  thoughts  of  the  stage ;  but  did  it  to 
amuse  myself  in  a  slow  recovery  from  a  fit  of 
sickness".  The  comedy  was  placed  in  the 
hands  of  Dryden,  who  fitted  it  for  the  stage, 
and  who  stated  that  he  "had  never  seen  such 
a  first  play  in  his  life  ".  It  was  acted,  after 
some  delay,  in  1693,  when  the  author  was 
actually  only  twenty-one  years  of  age.  Its 
success  was  unequivocal,  and  procured  for 
Congreve  the  patronage  of  Halifax,  who  made 
him  a  commissioner  for  licensing  coaches,  and 
soon  after  appointed  him  to  a  post  in  the  Pipe 
Office,  and  to  the  office  of  commissioner  of 
wine  licenses,  worth  £&)()  a  year.  Johnson 
says  that  "  this  gay  com(;dy,  when  all  deduc- 
tions are  made,  will  still  remain  the  work  of 
very  powerful  and  fertile  faculties ;  the  dia- 


logue is  quick  and  sparkling,  the  incidents 
such  as  seize  the  attention,  and  the  wit  so 
exuberant  that  it '  o'er-informs  its  tenement.'" 

Encouraged  by  his  success  Congreve  produced 
in  the  following  year  (1694)  The  Double  Dealer, 
which  was  not  successful,  though  praised  by 
the  best  critics,  and  now  known  to  be  a  better 
play  than  The  Old  Bachelor.  At  the  end  of 
the  year  Queen  Mary  died,  and  Congreve 
wrote  a  pastoral  on  the  event.  Johnson  calls 
it  a  "despicable  effusion,"  but  another  bio- 
grapher speaks  of  it  as  "  in  point  of  simplicity, 
elegance,  and  correctness  of  language,  equal  to 
anything  of  the  kind  that  has  appeared  in  our 
language."  In  1695  appeared  Love  for  Love, 
which,  like  the  first  play,  was  highly  success- 
ful, and  deservedly  so.  In  the  same  year  also 
appeared  his  poem  On  the  Taking  of  JVamur, 
in  which  he  is  said  to  have  "  succeeded 
greatly."  In  1697  he  produced  his  Mourning 
Bride,  a  tragedy,  which  raised  high  expecta- 
tions, and,  strange  to  say,  was  not  in  conse- 
quence a  failure.  Indeed,  nothing  could  be 
better  received,  and  the  l^lay,  though  marked 
by  more  of  bustle  and  noise  than  good  writing, 
still  holds  the  stage. 

In  the  following  year  (1698),  Jeremy  Collier 
issued  his  Short  Vieto  of  the  Inmiorality  and 
Profaneness  of  the  English  Stage,  in  which  he 
handled  Congreve's  four  plays  rather  roughly. 
Congreve  attempted  a  reply,  "which,  if  it  does 
not  justify  him,  shows,  however,  great  modesty 
and  wit."  This  quarrel  seems  to  have  given 
him  somewhat  of  a  distaste  for  the  stage,  and 
it  was  some  time  before  his  fifth,  last,  best, 
and  most  carefully  constructed  play.  The  Way 
of  the  World,  was  jaroduced.  This  was  at  first 
unsuccessful,  for,  says  a  writer  in  the  General 
Biographical  Dictionary,  "  it  gave  so  just  a 
picture  of  the  '  way  of  the  world  '  that  the 
world  seemed  resolved  not  to  bear  it." 

The  comjjarative  failure  of  this  last  Jjlay  so 
heightened  Congreve's  dislike  to  the  stage 
that  he  left  off  writing  for  it  for  ever;  upon 
which  Dennis  the  critic  remarked  "  that  Mr. 
Congi-eve  quitted  the  stage  early,  and  that 
comedy  left  it  with  him."  From  that  time 
his  literary  laboiti's  were  confined  to  original 
poems  and  translations,  a  complete  edition  of 
which  appeared  in  1710.     On  the  appearance 


WILLIAM  CONGREVE. 


69 


of  Southerne's  Oroonoko  lie  wi'ote  an  epilogue 
for  it,  and  he  gave  Dryden  considerable 
assistance  in  his  ti'anslation  of  Virgil.  He 
also  wrote  the  translation  of  the  eleventh 
satire  of  Juvenal.,  published  in  Diydens 
translation  of  that  poet,  and  he  contributed 
at  least  one  paper  to  Steele's  Tatler.  The 
latter  part  of  his  life  was  passed  chiefly  in 
retirement,  not,  however,  of  an  eremitic 
kind,  but  broken  into  by  the  visits  of  old 
friends  and  distinguished  people  either  in 
fashion  or  literature.  On  the  19th  Januai'y, 
1729,  he  died  in  his  house  in  Surrey  Street, 
Strand,  and  on  the  26th  his  coi'pse  "  lay  in 
state"  in  the  Jerusalem  Chambei',  whence 
it  was  carried  with  gieat  pomp  into  West- 
minster Abbey  and  buried  theie.  In  keep- 
ing with  the  tuft-hunting  weakness  in  his 
character  he  bequeathed  the  chief  part  of 
his  fortune,  .£10,000,  to  the  Duchess  of  Marl- 
borough, to  whom  it  could  be  but  of  little 
use,  while  he  left  his  own  family  connections 
and  others  who  had  moral  claims  on  him 
to  struggle  on  unhelped  by  any  hand  of  his. 

Congreve  "raised  the  gloxy  of  comedy", 
says  Voltaire,  "  to  a  greater  height  than  any 
English  writer  before  or  since  his  time.  He 
wrote  only  a  few  plays,  but  they  are  ex- 
cellent of  their  kind."  Johnson  speaks 
slightingly  of  his  poems,  but  acknowledges 
that  "  while  comedy  or  while  tragedy  is  re- 
garded, his  plays  are  likely  to  be  read". 
Mr.  Cowden  Clarke  speaks  of  Congreve  as 
"  the  keystone  to  the  arch  of  the  conventional 
and  artificial  school  of  the  comic  drama". 

In  addition  to  the  works  already  men- 
tioned Congreve  wrote  The  Judgment  of 
Paris,  a  masque,  and  an  oratorio  or  opera 
called  Semele,  which  was  set  to  music  by 
Handel,  but  never  acted,  so  far  as  we  can 
discover.] 


j       She  likes  lierHcIf,  yet  others  liates 

For  that  which  in  herself  she  prizes ; 

'       And,  while  she  laughs  at  them,  forgets 
She  is  the  thing  that  she  despi.ses. 


AMORET. 


Fair  Amoret  is  gone  astray ; 

Pursue  and  seek  her,  ev'ry  lover; 
I'll  tell  the  signs  by  whicii  you  may 

The  wandering  shepherdess  discover. 

Coquet  and  coy  at  once  her  air, 

Both  studied,  though  both  seem  neglected ; 
Careless  she  is  with  artful  care, 

Affecting  to  seem  unaffected. 

AVith  skill  her  eyes  dart  every  glance, 

Yet  change  so  soon  you'd  ne'er  suspect  them; 

For  she'd  persuade  they  wound  by  chance, 
Though  certain  aim  and  art  direct  them. 


LETTER  TO   A   FRIEND. 

Should  hope  and  fear  thy  heart  alternate  tear, 

Or  love,  or  hate,  or  rage,  or  anxious  care, 

Whatever  passions  may  thy  mind  infest, 

(Where  is  that  mind  which  passions  ne'er  molest?) 

Amidst  the  pangs  of  such  intestine  strife, 

Still  think  the  present  day  the  last  of  life ; 

Defer  not  till  to-morrow  to  be  wise. 

To-morrow's  sun  to  thee  may  never  rise. 

Or  should  to-morrow  chance  to  cheer  thy  sight 

With  her  enlivening  and  unlook'd-for  light. 

How  grateful  will  appear  her  dawning  rays. 

As  favours  unexpected  doubly  please  ! 

Who   thus   can   think,    and    who  such   thoughts 

pursues, 
Content  may  keep  his  life,  or  calmly  lose : 
All  proofs  of  this  thou  may'st  thyself  receive 
When  leisure  from  affairs  will  give  thee  leave. 
Come,  see  thy  friend,  retir'd  without  regret, 
Forgetting  care,  or  striving  to  forget; 
In  easy  contemplation  soothing  time 
Witli  morals  much,  and  now  and  then  with  rhyme: 
Not  so  robust  in  body  as  in  mind, 
And  always  undejected,  though  declin'd; 
Not  wondering  at  the  world's  wicked  ways, 
(Compar'd  with  those  of  our  forefathers'  days) 
For  virtue  now  is  neither  more  nor  less, 
And  vice  is  only  varied  in  the  dress. 
Believe  it,  men  have  ever  been  the  same, 
And  all  the  golden  age  is  but  a  dream. 


TALKING   OF   LOVERS.' 

MiRABLE  and  Mrs.  Fain  all  toe/ether. 

Enter  Mrs.  Millamant,  a  young  widow, 
WiTwouLD,  and  Mincing. 

Mir.  Here  she  comes,  i'faith !  full  sail, 
with  her  fan  spread  and  streamers  out,  and 
a  shoal  of  fools  for  tenders — eh?  no;  I  cry 
her  mercy. 

Mrs.  F.  I  see  but  one  poor  empty  sculler ; 
and  he  tows  her  woman  after  him. 

Mir.  You  seem  to  be  unattended,  madam. 
You  used  to  have  the  heau  monde  throng 
after  you,  and  a  flock  of  gay,  fine  perukes 
hovering  round  you. 

Wit.  Like  moths  about  a  candle.      I  had 


1  This  and  the  following  extract  are  from   The  Way 
of  the  World. 


70 


AV^ILLIAM   CONGREVE. 


like  to  have  lost  my  comparison  for  want  of 
breath. 

Mis.  Mill.  Oh,  I  have  denied  myself  airs 
to-day !  I  have  walked  as  fast  through  the 
crowd — 

Wit.  As  a  favourite  just  disgraced;  and  with 
as  few  followers. 

Mrs.  Mill.  Dear  Mr.  Witwould,  truce  with 
your  similitudes ;  for  I  am  as  sick  of  'em — 

Wit.  As  a  physician  of  a  good  air.  I  can- 
not help  it,  madam,  though  'tis  against  my- 
self. 

Mrs.  Mill.  Yet  again  !  Mincing,  stand  be- 
tween me  and  his  wit. 

Wit.  Do,  Mrs.  Mincing,  like  a  screen  before 
a  gi'eat  fire.  I  confess,  I  do  blaze  to-day,  I 
am  too  bright. 

Mrs.  F.  But  Millamant,  why  were  you  so 
long? 

Mrs.  Mill.  Long !  Lud !  have  I  not  made 
violent  haste  1  I  have  asked  every  living  thing 
I  met  for  you ;  I  have  inquired  after  you,  as 
after  a  new  fashion. 

Wit.  Madam,  truce  with  your  similitudes. 
No,  you  met  her  husband,  and  did  not  ask 
him  for  her. 

Mir.  By  your  leave,  Witwould,  that  were 
like  inquiring  after  an  old  fashion,  to  ask  a 
husband  for  his  wife. 

Wit.  Hum !  a  hit,  a  hit — a  palpable  hit,  I 
confess  it. 

Mir.  You  were  dressed  before  I  came  abroad. 

Mrs.  Mill.  Ay,  that's  true.  Oh !  but  then 
I  had — Mincing,  what  had  I?  Why  was  I  so 
long"? 

Mill.  Oh  !  mem,  your  la'ship  stayed  to  peruse 
a  packet  of  letters. 

Mrs.  Mill.  Oh,  ay,  letters  !  I  had  letters ;  I 
am  persecuted  with  letters ;  I  hate  letters ; 
nobody  knows  how  to  write  letters ;  and  yet 
one  has  'em,  one  does  not  know  why — they 
serve  one  to  pin  up  one's  hair. 

Wit.  Is  that  the  way?  Pray,  madam,  do 
you  pin  up  your  hair  with  all  your  letters?  I 
find  I  must  keep  copies. 

Mrs.  Mill.  Only  with  those  in  verse,  Mr. 
Witwould,  I  never  2>in  up  my  hair  with  prose. 
I  think  I  tried  once.  Mincing? 

Mill.  Oh  !  mem,  1  shall  never  forget  it. 

Mrs.  Mill.  Ay,  jjoor  Mincing  tiff"ed  and  tiffed 
all  tlie  morning. 

Min.  Till  I  had  the  cramp  in  my  fingers, 
I'll  vow,  mem,  and  all  to  no  purpose.  But 
when  your  la'ship  pins  it  up  with  poetry,  it 
sits  so  j)leasant  the  next  day  as  anything,  and 
is  so  pure  and  so  crij)s  ! 
Wit.  Indeed,  so  crips? 


Min.  You're  such  a  critic,  Mr.  Witwould. 

Mrs.  Mill.  Mirable,  did  you  take  excep- 
tions last  night?  Oh !  ay,  and  went  away. 
Now  I  think  on't,  I'm  angry — No,  now  I  think 
on't,  I'm  plea.sed;  for  I  believe  I  gave  you 
some  pain. 

Mir.  Does  that  please  you? 

Mrs.  Mill.  Infinitely ;  I  love  to  give 
pain. 

Mir.  You  would  aff"ect  a  cruelty  which  is 
not  in  youi-  nature ;  your  true  vanity  is  in  the 
power  of  pleasing. 

Mrs.  Mill.  Oh !  I  ask  your  pardon  for  that. 
One's  cruelty  is  one's  power,  and  when  one 
parts  with  one's  cruelty,  one  parts  with  one's 
power ;  and  when  one  has  parted  with  that,  I 
fancy  one's  old  and  ugly. 

Mir.  Ay,  ay,  suffer  your  cruelty  to  ruin  the 
object  of  your  power,  to  destroy  your  lover ; 
and  then  how  vain,  how  lost  a  thing  you'll  be  ! 
The  vigly  and  old,  whom  the  looking-glass 
mortifies,  yet,  after  commendation,  can  be  flat- 
tered by  it,  and  discover  beauties  in  it;  for 
that  reflects  our  praises,  rather  than  your 
face. 

Mrs.  Mill.  Oh,  the  vanity  of  these  men ! 
Faiuall,  d'ye  hear  him?  If  they  did  not  com- 
mend us,  we  were  not  handsome  !  Now,  you 
must  know  they  could  not  commend  one,  if 
one  was  not  handsome.  Beauty  the  lover's 
gift !  Dear  me,  what  is  a  lover,  that  it  can 
give  ?  Why,  one  makes  lovers  as  fast  as  one 
pleases,  and  they  live  as  long  as  one  pleases, 
and  they  die  as  soon  as  one  pleases ;  and  then, 
if  one  pleases,  one  makes  more. 

Wit.  Very  pretty.  Why,  you  make  no  more 
of  making  of  lovers,  madam,  than  of  making 
so  many  card-matches. 

Mrs.  Mill.  One  no  more  owes  one's  beauty 
to  a  lover,  than  one's  wit  to  an  echo.  They 
can  but  reflect  what  we  look  and  say ;  vain, 
empty  things,  if  we  are  silent  or  unseen,  and 
want  a  being. 

Mir.  Yet,  to  those  two  vain,  empty  things, 
you  owe  two  of  the  greatest  pleasures  of  your 
life. 

Mrs.  Mill.  How  so? 

Mir.  To  your  lover  you  owe  the  pleasure  of 
hearing  yourselves  praised,  and  to  an  echo 
the  pleasure  of  hearing  yourselves  talk. 

Wit.  But  I  know  a  lady  that  loves  talking 
so  incessantly  she  won't  give  an  echo  fair  play; 
she  has  that  everlasting  rotation  of  tongue 
that  an  echo  must  wait  till  she  dies  before  it 
can  catch  her  last  words. 

Mrs.  Mill.  Oh,  fiction  !  Fainall,  let  us  leave 
these  men. 


TALKING    OF    LOVhKS 


WILLIAM  CONGREVE. 


71 


SETTLING   THE    CONTRACT. 

Mrs.  Millamant,  the  young  widow,  solus 
{Repeating) 

Like  Phoebus  sung  the  no  less  am'rous  boy. 

Enter  Mirable. 
Mir.  {Repeating) 

Like  Daphne  she,  as  lovely  and  as  coy. 

Do  you  lock  yourself  up  from  me  to  make  my 
search  more  curious  ?  Or  is  this  pretty  artifice 
contrived  to  signify  that  hero  the  chase  must 
end,  and  my  jjursuit  be  crowned,  for  you  can 
fly  no  further/ 

Mrs.  Mill.  Vanity!  No;  I'U  fly  and  be 
followed  to  the  last  moment.  Though  I  am 
upon  the  very  verge  of  matrimony,  I  expect 
you  should  solicit  me  as  much  as  if  I  were 
wavering  at  the  grate  of  a  monastery,  with 
one  foot  over  the  threshold.  I'll  be  solicited 
to  the  very  last — nay,  and  afterwards. 

Mir.  What,  after  the  last? 

Mrs.  Mill.  Oh,  I  should  think  I  were  poor, 
and  had  nothing  to  bestow,  if  I  were  reduced 
to  inglorious  ease ;  and  freed  from  the  agree- 
able fatigues  of  solicitation. 

Mir.  But  do  not  you  know  that  when  favours 
are  conferred  upon  instant  and  tedious  solici- 
tation, that  they  diminish  in  their  value,  and 
that  both  the  giver  loses  the  grace,  and  the 
receiver  lessens  his  pleasure] 

Mill.  It  may  be  in  things  of  common  appli- 
cation; but  never  sure  in  love.  O,  I  hate  a 
lover  that  can  dare  to  think  he  draws  a  mom- 
ent's air  independent  on  the  bounty  of  his 
mistress.  There  is  not  so  impudent  a  thing 
in  nature  as  the  saucy  look  of  an  assured 
man,  confident  of  success.  The  pedantic  ar- 
rogance of  a  very  husband  has  not  so  prag- 
matical an  air. — Ah !  I'll  never  marry,  unless 
I  am  first  made  sure  of  my  will  and  pleasure. 

Mir.  Would  you  have  'em  Iwth  before 
marriage?  Or  will  you  be  contented  with  only 
the  first  now,  "  and  stay  for  the  other  till  after 
grace?" 

Mrs.  Mill.  Ah!  don't  be  impertinent — My 
dear  liberty,  shall  I  leave  thee?  My  faithful 
solitude,  my  darling  contemplation,  must  I  bid 
you  then  adieu?  Ay,  adieu  — My  morning 
thoughts,  agreeable  wakings,  indolent  slum- 
bers, ye  douceurs,  ye  sommeils  du  matin,  adieu 

— I  can't  do't,  'tis  more  tlian  impossible 

Positively,  Mirable,  I'll  lie  a-bed  in  the  morn- 
ing as  long  as  I  please. 

Mir.  Then  I'll  get  up  in  a  morning  as  early 
as  I  please. 


Mrs.  Mill.  Ah !  idle  creature,  get  up  when 

you  will -And,  d'ye  hear,  I  won't  be  called 

names  after  I'm  married;  positively  I  won't 
be  Ciilled  names. 

Mir.  Names ! 

Mrs.  Mill.  Ay,  as  wife,  spouse,  my  dear, 
joy,  jewel,  love,  sweetheart,  and  the  rest  of 
that  nauseous  cant  in  which  men  and  their 
wives  are  so  fulsomely  familiar ;  I  shall  never 
bear  that.  Good  Mirable,  don't  let  us  be 
familiar  or  fond,  nor  kiss  before  folks,  like  my 
Lady  Fadler  and  Sir  Francis;  nor  go  in  public 
together  the  first  Sunday  in  a  new  chariot  to 
provoke  eyes  and  whispers;  and  then  never 
be  seen  there  together  again ;  as  if  we  were 
proud  of  one  another  the  first  week,  and 
ashamed  of  one  another  ever  after.  Let  us 
never  visit  together,  nor  go  to  a  play  together, 
but  let  us  be  very  strange  and  well  bred ;  let 
us  be  as  strange  as  if  M^e  had  been  married  a 
great  while;  and  as  well  bred  as  if  we  were 
not  married  at  all. 

Mir.  Have  you  any  more  conditions  to 
offer?  Hitherto,  your  demands  are  pretty 
reasonable. 

Mrs.  Mill.  Trifles,  as  liberty  to  pay  and  re- 
ceive visits  to  and  from  whom  I  please ;  to 
wi-ite  and  receive  letters  without  interrogat- 
ories or  wry  faces  on  your  part ;  to  wear  what 
I  please ;  and  choose  conversation  with  regard 
only  to  my  own  taste ;  to  have  no  obligation 
upon  me  to  converse  with  wits  that  I  don't 
like  because  they  are  j'our  acquaintance ;  or 
to  be  intimate  with  fools  because  they  may  be 
your  relations.  Come  to  dinner  when  I  plejise, 
dine  in  my  dressing-room  when  I'm  out  of 
humour,  without  giving  a  reason.  To  have 
my  closet  inviolate ;  to  be  sole  empress  of  my 
tea-table,  which  you  must  never  presume  to 
approach  without  first  asking  leave.  And 
lastly,  wherever  I  am,  you  shall  always  knock 
at  the  door  before  you  come  in.  These  arti- 
cles subscribed,  if  I  continue  to  endure  you  a 
little  longer,  I  may  by  degrees  dwindle  into  a 
wife. 

Mir.  Your  bill  of  fare  is  something  advanced 
in  this  latter  account.  Well,  have  I  liberty 
to  ofi"er  conditions  that  when  you  are  dwindled 
into  a  wife  I  may  not  be  beyond  measure  en- 
larged into  a  husband  ? 

Mrs.  Mill.  You  have  free  leave;  propose 
your  utmost ;  speak,  and  spare  not. 

Mir.  I  thank  you.  Imprimis  then,  I  coven- 
ant that  your  acquaintance  be  general ;  that 
you  admit  no  sworn  confidant  or  intimate  of 
your  own  sex;  no  she -friend  to  screen  her 
affairs  under  your  countenance  and  tempt  you 


72 


WILLIAM   CONGEEVE. 


to  make  trial  of  a  mutual  secrecy.  No  decoy- 
duck  to  wheedle  you  a  fop-scrambling  to  the 
play  in  a  mask;  then  bring  you  home  in  a 
pretended  fright,  when  you  think  you  shall 
be  found  out ;  and  rail  at  me  for  missing  the 
play,  and  disapj)ointing  the  frolic  which  you 
liad  to  pick  me  up  and  prove  my  constancy. 

Mrs.  Mill.  Detestable  imprimis!  I  go  to 
the  play  in  a  mask  ! 

Mir.  Item,  I  article  that  you  continue  to 
like  your  own  face  as  long  as  I  shall.  And 
while  it  passes  current  with  me,  that  you  en- 
deavour not  to  new-coin  it.  To  which  end, 
together  with  all  vizards  for  the  day,  I  pro- 
hibit all  masks  for  the  night  made  of  oiled 
skins,  and  I  know  not  what  —  hog's-bones, 
hare's-gall,  pig-water,  and  the  marrow  of  a 
roasted  cat.  In  short,  I  forbid  all  commerce 
with  the  gentlewoman  in  What-d'ye-call-it 
Court.  Lastly,  to  the  dominion  of  the  tea- 
table  I  submit. — But  with  proviso,  that  you 
exceed  not  in  your  province;  but  restrain 
yourself  to  native  and  simple  tea-table  drinks, 
as  tea,  chocolate,  and  coffee.  As  likewise  to 
genuine  and  authorized  tea-table  talk — Sucli 
as  mending  of  fashions,  spoiling  reputations, 
railing  at  absent  friends,  and  so  forth — But 
that  on  no  account  you  encroach  on  the  men's 
prerogative,  and  presume  to  drink  healths  or 
toast  fellows ;  for  prevention  of  which  I  banish 
all  foreign  forces,  all  auxiliaries  to  the  tea-table, 
as  orange-brandy,  all  aniseed,  cinnamon,  cit- 
ron, and  Barbadoes- waters,  together  with 
ratafia,  and  the  most  noble  spirit  of  Clary. 

■ But  for  cowslip-wine,  poppy-water,  and 

all  dormitives,  those  I  allow. — These  proviso 
admitted,  in  other  things  I  may  prove  a  tract- 
able and  complying  husband. 

Mill.  O,  \\ovx\di proviso  !  filthy  strong  waters  ! 
I  toast  fellows,  odious  men  !  I  hate  your  odious 
proviso. 

Mir.  Then  we're  agreed.  Shall  I  kiss  your 
band  upon  the  contract?  and  here  comes  one 
to  be  a  witness  to  the  sealing  of  the  deed. 


A  LITERARY  LADY.^ 

Enter  Lady  Froth,  Lord  Froth,  and 
Brisk. 

Lady  F.  Then  you  think  that  episode  be- 
tween Susan  the  dairymaid  and  our  coach- 
man is  not  amiss?  You  know,  I  may  suppose, 
the  dairy  in  town  as  well  as  in  the  country. 


•  From  The  Double  Dealer. 


Brisk.  Incomparable,  let  me  perish  !  But, 
then,  being  an  heroic  poem,  had  not  you  better 
call  him  a  charioteer  ?  Charioteer  sounds  great; 
besides,  your  ladyship's  coachman,  having  a 
red  face,  and  you  comparing  him  to  the  sun 
— and,  you  know,  the  sun  is  called  heaven's 
charioteer. 

Lady  F.  Oh !  infinitely  better ;  I'm  ex- 
tremely beholding  to  you  for  the  hint.  Stay, 
we'U  read  over  those  half-a-score  lines  again. 
{Pulls  out  a  paper.)  Let  me  see  here.  You 
know  what  goes  before ;  the  comparison  you 
know.  [^Reads 

For  as  the  sun  shines  ev'ry  day, 
So  of  our  coachman  I  may  say — 

Brisk.  I'm  afraid  that  simUe  won't  do  in 
wet  weather,  because  you  say  the  sun  shines 
every  day. 

Lady  F.  No,  for  the  sun,  it  won't ;  but  it 
will  do  for  the  coachman;  for,  you  know, 
there's  most  occasion  for  a  coach  in  wet 
weather. 

Brisk.  Eight,  right ;  that  saves  all. 
Lady  F.  Then,  I  don't  say  the  sun  shines 
all  the  day ;  but,  that  he  peeps  now  and  then. 
Yet  he  does  shine  all  the  day,  too,  you  know, 
though  we  don't  see  him. 

Brisk.  Eight;  but  the  vulgar  will  never 
comprehend  that. 

Lady  F.  Well,  you  shall  heai-.    Let  me  see. 

\^Reads 
For  as  the  sun  shines  every  day, 
So  of  our  coachman  I  may  say. 
He  shows  his  drunken  fiery  face, 
Just  as  the  sun  does,  more  or  less. 

Brisk.  That's  right;  all's  well,  all's  weU. 
More  or  less. 

Lady  F.  (Reads) 

And  when,  at  night,  his  labour's  done, 
Then,  too,  like  heaven's  charioteer,  the  sun— 

Ay,  charioteer  does  better. 

Into  the  dairy  he  descends, 
And  there  his  whipping  and  his  driving  ends ; 
There  he's  secure  from  danger  of  a  bilk, 
His  fare  is  paid  him,  and  he  sets  in  milk. 

For  Susan,  you  know,  is  Thetis,  and  so — 

Brisk.  Incomparably  well  and  proper,  egad ! 
but  I  have  one  exception  to  make.  Don't  you 
think  bilk— I  know  it's  good  rhyme  —  but 
don't  you  think  bilk  and  fare  too  like  a  hack- 
ney-coachman ? 

Lady  F.  I  swear  and  vow  I'm  afraid  so ; 
and  yet  our  Jehu  was  a  hackney-coachman 
when  my  lord  took  him. 

Brisk.  Was  he?  I'm  answered  if  Jehu  was 
a  hackney-coachman.     You  may  ]nit  that  into 


TUELOUGH  O'OAROLAN. 


73 


the  marginal  notes,  though,  to  prevent  criti- 
cism. Only  mark  it  witli  a  small  asterism, 
and  say,  Jehu  was  formerly  a  hackney-coach- 
man. 

Lady  F.  I  will.  You'd  oblige  me  extremely 
to  write  notes  to  the  whole  poem. 

Brisk,  With  all  my  heart  and  soul ;  and 
proud  of  the  vast  honour,  let  me  perish ! 

Lord  F.  He,  he,  he  !  My  dear,  have  you 
done?  Won't  you  join  with  us?  We  were 
laughing  at  my  Lady  Whifler  and  Mr.  Sneer. 

Lady  F.  Ay,  my  dear,  were  you  ?  Oh  !  filthy 
Mr.  Sneer !  he's  a  nauseous  figure,  a  most 
f ulsamic  fop,  pho !  He  spent  two  days  to- 
gether in  going  about  Covent  Garden  to  suit 
the  lining  of  his  coach  with  his  complexion. 

Lord  F.  Oh,  silly  !  Yet  his  aunt  is  as  fond 
of  him  as  if  she  had  brought  the  ape  into  the 
world  herself. 

Brisk.  Who,  my  Lady  Toothless  ?  Oh  !  she's 
a  mortifying  spectacle ;  she's  always  chewing 
the  cud,  like  an  old  ewe. 

Lord  F.  Fie !  Mr.  Brisk,  'tis  eringoes  for 
her  cough. 

Lady  F.  Then  she's  always  ready  to  laugh 
when  Sneer  offers  to  sjjeak ;  and  sits  in  expec- 
tation of  his  no  jest,  with  her  mouth  oj^en. 

Brisk.  Like  an  oyster  at  low  ebb,  egad  !  Ha, 
ha,  ha ! 

Lady  F.  Then  that  t'other  great  strapping 
lady;  I  can't  hit  of  her  name;  the  old  fat  fool 
that  paints  so  exorbitantly. 

Brisk.  I  know  whom  you  mean:  but  deuce 
take  me,  I  can't  hit  of  her  name  neither. 
Paints,  d'ye  say  ?  Why,  she  lays  it  on  Avith  a 
trowel ;  then  she  has  a  great  beard,  that 
bristles  through  it,  and  makes  her  look  as  if 
she  were  plastered  with  lime  and  hair,  let  me 
perish. 

Lady  F.  Oh !  you  made  a  song  upon  her, 
Mr.  Brisk. 


Brisk.  Eh  !  egad !  so  I  did.  My  lord  can 
sing  it.  'Tis  not  a  song,  neither.  It's  a  soit 
of  an  epigram,  or  rather  an  epigrammatic 
sonnet;  I  don't  know  what  to  call  it,  but  it's 
satire.     Sing  it,  my  lord. 

SONO— LORD   FROTH. 

Ancient  Phillis  has  young  graces, 
'Tis  a  strange  thing,  but  a  true  one; 
Shall  I  tell  you  how? 
She  herself  makes  her  own  faces, 

And  each  morning  wears  a  new  one; — 
Where's  the  wonder  now  ? 

Brisk.  Short,  but  there's  salt  in  it ;  my  way 
of  writing,  egad ! 


EXTRACTS  FROM 
"THE  MOURNING  BRIDE." 

Music  has  charms  to  sooth  a  savage  breast, 
To  soften  rocks,  or  bend  a  knotted  oak. 
I've  read,  that  things  inanimate  have  mov'd. 
And,  as  with  living  souls,  have  been  inform'd 
By  magic  numbers  and  persuasive  sound. 


Yile  and  ingrate!  too  late  thou  shalt  repent 
The  base  injustice  thou  hast  done  my  love: 
Yes,  thou  shalt  know,  spite  of  thy  past  distress, 
And  all  those  ills  which  thou  so  long  hast  mourn'd ; 
Heav'n  has  no  rage  like  love  to  hatred  turn'd, 
Xor  hell  a  furv  like  a  woman  scorn'd. 


Seest  thou  how  just  the  hand  of  Heav'n  has  been? 
Let  us,  who  through  our  innocence  survive. 
Still  in  the  paths  of  honour  persevere. 
And  not  from  past  or  present  ills  despair; 
For  blessings  ever  wait  on  virtuous  deeds; 
And  though  a  late,  a  sure  reward  succeeds. 


TURLOUGH    O'CAROLAN. 


Born  1670  — Died  1738. 


[Turlough  Carolan,  or  O'Carolan  as  he  is 
more  properly  called,  was  born  in  the  year 
1670  at  the  village  of  Baile-nusah  or  Newton, 
in  the  county  of  Westmeath,  and  not  at  Nob- 
ber,  as  is  generally,  but  erroneously,  stated. 
His  father  was  a  small  farmer,  and  his  mother 
the  daughter  of  a  peasant  in  the  neighbour- 
hood.    Goldsmith  speaking  of  him  says  that 


"  he  seemed  by  nature  formed  for  his  profes- 
sion ;  for  as  he  was  born  blind,  so  also  he  was 
possessed  of  a  most  astonishing  memory,  and 
a  facetious  turn  of  thinking,  which  gave  his 
entertainers  infinite  satisfaction."  As  to  the 
blindness.  Goldsmith  is  in  error,  for  Carolan 
was  born  with  perfect  eyesight,  but  early  in 
life,  or  about  his  fifteenth  year,  an  attack  of 


74 


TUELOUGH   O'CAROLAN. 


small-jjox  made  the  world  dark  to  him  for 
ever.  Before  this  he  had  been  sent  to  school 
at  Cruisetown,  county  Longford,  and  there  he 
made  the  acquaintance  of  the  Bridget  Cruise 
whom  he  afterwards  immortalized  in  one  of 
his  songs. 

While  still  a  boy  Carolan  moved  with  his 
father  to  Carrick-on-Sha/nnon,  and  there  he 
attracted  the  attention  of  a  Mrs.  M'Dermott- 
Eoe,  who  admired  him  for  his  intelligence. 
Placing  him  among  her  own  children,  she  had 
him  carefully  instructed  in  Irish,  and  also  to 
some  extent  in  English.  She  also  caused  him 
to  learn  how  to  play  the  harp,  not  with  the 
view  to  his  becoming  a  harper,  but  simply  as 
an  accomplishment.  Hardiman  says  he  after- 
wards "  became  a  minstrel  by  accident,  and 
continued  it  more  through  choice  than  neces- 
sity." Charles  O'Conor — who  places  Carolan 
before  us  as  a  reduced  Irish  gentleman 
who  lost  his  property  in  the  troubles  of  the 
time — says  "  he  was  above  playing  for  hire ; 
at  the  houses  where  he  visited  he  was  wel- 
comed more  as  a  friend  than  an  itinerant 
musician."  In  his  twenty-second  year  he  sud- 
denly determined  to  become  a  harper,  and 
his  benefactress  providing  him  with  a  couple 
of  horses  and  an  attendant  to  carry  the 
harp,  he  started  on  a  round  of  visits  to  the 
neighbouring  gentry,  to  most  of  whom  he  was 
already  known.  In  his  journey  he  did  not 
forget  to  visit  Cruisetown,  and  though  he 
might  not  behold  beauty  of  form,  his  mind 
was  doubly  alive  to  the  beauty  of  soul  which 
he  believed  existed  in  his  old  school-fellow 
Miss  Cruise.  To  her  he  poured  out  song  after 
song,  and  at  last  in  plain  prose  acknowledged 
his  affection  and  met  with  a  i-efusal.  How- 
ever, it  is  said  that  the  young  lady  was  any- 
thing but  averse  to  him  personally,  her  rejec- 
tion being  founded  chiefly  on  financial  reasons. 
Leaving  Cruisetown  his  real  career  as  an  itin- 
erant musician  began,  and  for  years  he  wan- 
dered all  over  the  country,  gladly  received 
wherever  he  came,  and  seldom  forgetting  to 
pay  for  his  entertainment  by  song  in  praise  of 
his  host. 

When  approaching  middle  life,  Carolan  went 
on  a  pilgiiinage  to  wliat  is  called  St.  Patrick's 
Purgatory,  a  cave  in  an  island  on  Lough  Dearg 
in  county  Donegal.  While  standing  on  the 
shore  he  began  to  assist  some  of  his  fellow- 
pilgrims  into  a  boat,  and,  chancing  to  take 
hold  of  a  lady's  hand,  he  suddenly  exclaimed, 
"By  the  hand  of  my  gossip  !  this  is  the  hand 
of  Bridget  Cruise."  So  it  was ;  but  the 
fair  one  was  still  deaf  to  his  suit,  and  soon 


after  he  solaced  himself  for  her  loss  by  marry- 
ing Miss  Mary  Maguire,  a  young  lady  of  good 
family.  With  her  he  lived  very  happily  and 
learned  to  love  her  tenderly,  though  she  was 
haughty  and  extravagant.  On  his  marriage 
he  built  a  neat  house  at  Moshill  in  county 
Leitrim,  and  there  entertained  his  friends  with 
more  liberality  than  prudence.  The  income 
of  his  little  farm  was  soon  swallowed  up,  and 
he  fell  into  embarrassments  which  haunted 
him  the  rest  of  his  life.  On  this  he  took  to 
his  wanderings  again,  while  his  wife  stayed  at 
home,  and  busied  herself  with  the  education 
of  their  rather  numerous  family.  In  1733, 
however,  she  was  removed  by  death,  and  a 
melancholy  fell  upon  him  which  remained 
till  the  end.  When  the  first  agony  of  his 
grief  was  past  he  composed  a  monody  on  her 
death,  a  composition  which  we  quote,  and 
which  in  the  original  Irish  is  peculiarly  plain- 
tive and  pathetic. 

Carolan  did  not  survive  his  wife  long.  In 
1738,  in  the  sixty-eighth  year  of  his  age, he  paid 
a  visit  to  the  house  of  his  early  benefactress, 
Mrs.  M'Dermott-Eoe,  and  there  he  fell  ill  and 
died  of  a  disease,  brought  on  it  is  said  by  over- 
indulgence in  drink. 

Carolan  was,  as  Goldsmith  says,  "  at  once  a 
poet,  a  musician,  and  a  composer,  and  sung 
his  own  verses  to  his  harp."  Goldsmith  also 
says  that  of  all  the  bards  Ireland  produced, 
"  the  last  and  the  greatest  was  Carolan  the 
blind."  With  a  single  exception  of  no  import- 
ance all  his  songs,  which  numbered  over  two 
hundred,  were  written  in  the  Irish  language, 
in  which  also  they  appear  to  most  advantage. 
The  style  of  his  music  may  be  best  studied  in 
the  air  to  "  Biimper  Squire  Jones,"  which 
Carolan  originally  comj^osed  to  words  of  his 
own.  Though  essentially  Gaelic,  his  style  has 
also  something  of  Italian  in  its  manner.  It 
was  much  admired  by  a  great  contemporary, 
Geminiani,  who  declared  Cai'olan  was  endued 
with  il  genio  vero  delta  musica. 

It  is  a  great  pity  so  few,  and  these  not 
the  best,  of  Carolan's  compositions  are  extant. 
For  this  state  of  things  we  may  thank  an  un- 
filial  son,  who  in  1747  published  a  collection 
of  his  father's  music,  but  omitted  from  it 
most  of  the  best  compositions.  However, 
what  we  have  is  still  of  high  merit,  and  de- 
serves to  be  cherished  by  every  true  musician, 
as  well  as  by  everj'  lover  of  the  scattered 
reliques  of  poetry  and  music  left  us  of  the 
time  when  Ireland  was  indeed  the  "  Land 
of  Song." 

We  append  an  elegy  on  the  death  of  Caro- 


TURLOUGH   O'CAROLAN. 


75 


Ian,  written  by  liis  friend  M'Cabe,  and  trans- 
lated by  Miss  Brooke.^] 


PEGGY   BROWNE.* 

(translated   by   THOMAS  FURLONG.) 

Oh,  dark,  sweetest  girl,  are  my  days  doomed  to  be, 
While  my  heart  bleeds  in  silence  and  sorrow  for 

thee: 
In  the  green  spring  of  life  to  the  grave  1  go  down. 
Oh!   shield  me,   and  save  me,   my   lov'd  Peggy 

Browne. 

I  dreamt  that  at  evening  my  footsteps  were  bound 
To  yon  deep  spreading  wood  where  the  shades  fall 

around, 
I  sought,  midst  new  scenes,  all  my  sorrows  to  drown, 
But  the  cure  of  my  grief  rests  with  thee,  Peggy 

Browne. 

'Tis  soothing,  sweet  maiden,  thy  accents  to  hear. 
For,  like  wild  fairy  music  they  melt  on  the  ear. 
Thy  breast  is  as  fair  as  the  swan's  clothed  in  down, 
Oh,  peerless  and  perfect's  my  own  Peggy  Browne. 

Dear,  dear  is  the  bark  to  its  own  cherished  tree. 
But  dearer,  far  dearer,  is  my  lov'd  one  to  me : 
In  my  dreams  I  draw  near  her,  uncheck'd  by  a 

frown. 
But  my  arms  spread  in  vain  to  embrace  Peggy 

Browne. 


GENTLE   BRIDEEN. 

(GEORGE  SIGERSON,  M.D.,  TRANSLATOR.) 

0  gentle  fair  maiden,  thou  hast  left  me  in  sadness; 

My  bosom  is  pierced  with  Love's  arrow  so  keen; 
For  thy  mien  it  is  graceful,  thy  glances  are  glad- 
ness. 

And  thousands  thy  lovers,  0  gentle  Brideen ! 


1  M'Cabe,  says  Miss  Brooke,  was  rather  of  a  humorous 
than  a  sentimental  turn;  he  was  a  wit,  but  not  a  poet. 
It  was  therefore  his  grief  and  not  his  muse  that  inspired 
him  on  the  present  occasion. 

The  circumstances  which  gave  rise  to  this  elegy  are  strik- 
ing and  extremely  affecting,  Jl'Cabe  had  been  an  unusual 
length  of  time  without  seeing  his  friend,  and  went  to  pay 
him  a  visit.  As  he  approached  near  the  end  of  his  journey, 
in  passing  l)y  a  church-yard,  he  was  met  by  a  peasant,  of 
whom  he  inquired  for  Carolan.  The  peasaiit  pointed  to 
his  grave  and  wept.  M'Cabe,  shocked  and  astonished, 
was  for  some  time  unable  to  speak;  his  frame  shook,  liis 
knees  trembled,  he  had  just  power  to  totter  to  the  grave 
of  his  friend,  and  then  sunk  to  the  ground.  A  flood  of 
tears  at  last  came  to  his  relief,  and,  still  further  to  dis- 
burden his  mind,  he  vented  its  anguish  in  the  following 
lines.     In  the  original  they  are  simple  and  unadorned. 


The  gray  mist  of  morning  in  autumn  was  fleeting, 
When  1  met  the  bright  darling  down  in  the 
boreen ; 

Her  words  were  unkind,  but  I  soon  won  a  greeting; 
Sweet  kisses  I  stole  from  the  lips  of  Brideen! 

Oh!  fair  is  the  sun  in  the  dawning  all  tender, 
And  beauteous  the  ro-ses  beneath  it  are  seen, 

Thy  cheek   is  the  red  rose  I   thy  brow  the  sun- 
splendour! 
And,  cluster  of  ringlets!  my  dawn  is  Brideen! 

Then  shine,  0  bright  Sun,  on  thy  constant,  true 
lover; 
Then  shine,  once  aijain,  in  the  leafy  boreen. 
And  the  clouds  shall  depart  that  around  my  heart 
hover, 
And   we'll    walk   amid    gladness,    my    gentle 
Brideen ! 


BRIDGET   CRUISE. 

(TRANSLATED   BY  THOMAS   FURLONG.) 

Oh!  turn  thee  to  me,  my  only  love. 
Let  not  despair  confound  me; 

Turn,  and  may  blessings  from  above 
In  life  and  death  .surround  thee. 


but  pathetic  to  a  great  degree;  and  this  is  a  species  of 
beauty  in  composition  extremely  difficult  to  transfuse 
into  any  other  language.  I  do  not  pretend  in  tliis  to  have 
entirely  succeeded,  but  I  hope  the  effort  will  not  be  un- 
acceptable; much  of  the  simplicity  is  unavoidably  lost; 
the  pathos  which  remains  may,  perhaps,  in  some  measure 
atone  for  it. 

I  came,  with  friendship's  face,  to  glad  my  heart, 
But  sad  and  sorrowful  my  steps  depart ! 
In  my  friend's  stead— a  spot  of  earth  was  shown. 
And  on  his  grave  my  woe-struck  eyes  were  thrown  1 
No  more  to  their  distracted  sight  remained, 
But  the  cold  clay  that  all  they  lov'd  contained. 
And  there  his  last  and  narrow  bed  was  made. 
And  the  drear  tombstone  for  its  covering  laid. 

Alas !  for  this  my  aged  heart  is  -nTung, 
Grief  chokes  my  voice,  and  trembles  on  my  tongue, 
Lonely  and  desolate  I  mourn  the  dead. 
The  friend  with  whom  my  every  comfort  fled! 
There  is  no  anguish  can  with  this  compare ! 
No  pains,  diseases,  suffering,  or  despair. 
Like  that  I  feel,  while  such  a  loss  I  mourn. 
My  heart's  companion  from  its  fondness  torn! 
Oh,  insupportable,  distracting  grief  I 
Woe,  that  through  life  can  never  hope  relief! 
Sweet-singing  harp— thy  melody  is  o'er ! 
Sweet  friendship's  voice— I  hear  thy  sound  no  more! 
My  bliss,  my  wealth  of  pdctry  is  fled, 
And  every  joy,  with  liim  I  loved,  is  dead! 
Alas!  what  wonder  (while  my  heart  drops  blood 
Upon  the  woes  that  drain  its  vital  flood) 
If  maddening  grief  no  longer  can  be  borne. 
And  frenzy  fill  the  breast,  with  anguish  torn ! 

-  The  present  ^larquis  of  Sligo  is  descended  from  this 
inspirer  of  Carolan's  muse. 


76 


TURLOUGH   O'CAEOLAN. 


This  fond  heart  throbs  for  thee  alone — 

Oh!  leave  me  not  to  languish; 
Look  on  these  eyes,  whence  sleep  hath  flown, 

Bethink  thee  of  my  anguish: 
My  hopes,  my  thoughts,  my  destiny — 
All  dwell,  all  rest,  sweet  girl,  on  thee. 

Young  bud  of  beauty,  for  ever  bright. 

The  proudest  must  bow  before  thee: 
Source  of  my  sorrow  and  my  delight — 

Oh!  must  I  in  vain  adore  thee? 
Where,  where,  through  earth's  extended  round, 
Where  may  such  loveliness  be  found  ? 

Talk  not  of  fair  ones  known  of  yore; 
Speak  not  of  Deirdre  the  renowned — 

She  whose  gay  glance  each  minstrel  liail'd; 

Nor  she  whom  the  daring  Dardan  bore 
From  her  fond  husband's  longing  arms; 
Name  not  the  dame  whose  fatal  charms. 

When  weighed  against  a  world,  prevail'd; 
To  each  might  blooming  beauty  fall. 

Lovely,  thrice  lovely,  might  they  be; 
But  the  gifts  and  graces  of  each  and  all 

Are  mingled,  sweet  maid,  in  thee! 

How  the  entranc'd  ear  fondly  lingers 

On  the  turns  of  thy  thrilling  song ! 
How  brightens  each  eye  as  thy  fair  white  fingers 

O'er  the  chords  fly  gently  along ! 
The  noble,  the  learn'd,  the  ag'd,  the  vain, 
Gaze  on  the  songstress,  and  bless  the  strain. 
How  winning,  dear  girl,  is  thine  air, 
How  glossy  thy  golden  hair ! 
Oh!  lov'd  one,  come  back  again. 

With  thy  train  of  adorers  about  thee — 
Oh!  come,  for  in  grief  and  in  gloom  we  remain — 

Life  is  not  life  without  thee. 

My  memory  wanders — my  thoughts  have  stray'd — 

My  gathering  sorrows  oppress  me — 
Oh!  look  on  thy  victim,  bright  peerless  maid, 

Say  one  kind  word  to  bless  me. 
Why,  why  on  thy  beauty  must  I  dwell. 
When  each  tortur'd  heart  knows  its  power  too  well? 
Or  why  need  I  say  tliat  favour'd  and  bless'd 

Must  be  the  proud  land  tliat  bore  thee? 
Oh!  dull  is  the  eye  and  cold  the  breast 

That  remains  unmov'd  before  thee. 


WHY,  LIQUOR   OF   LIFE? 

(translated   by   JOHN    U' ALTON,  M.R.I. A.) 

The  Bard  addressef;  whisky — 
Why,  liquor  of  life !  do  I  love  you  so; 


When  in  all  our  encounters  you  lay  me  low  ? 
Jtore  stupid  and  senseless  I  every  day  grow. 

What  a  hint — if  I'd  mend  by  the  warning! 
Tatter'd  and  torn  you've  left  my  coat, 
I've  not  a  cravat — to  save  my  throat. 
Yet  I  pardon  you  all,  my  sparkling  doat. 

If  you'd  cheer  me  again  in  the  morning ! 

Whisky  replies — 
When  you've  heard  prayers  on  Sunday  next. 
With  a  sermon  beside,  or  at  least — the  text, 
Comedown  to  the  alehouse — howeveryou're  vexed. 

And  though  thousands  of  cares  assault  you. 
You'll  find  tippling  there — till  morals  mend, 
A  cock  shall  be  placed  in  the  barrel's  end. 
The  jar  shall  be  near  you,  and  I'll  be  your  friend, 

And  give  you  a  " Kead  rnille  fanM." ^ 

The  Bard  resumes  his  address — 
You're  my  soul  and   my  treasure,   without  and 

within, 
My  sister  and  cousin  and  all  my  kin; 
'Tis  unlucky  to  wed  such  a  prodigal  sin, — 
But  all  other  enjoyment  is  vain,  love! 
My  barley  ricks  all  turn  to  you — 
My  tillage — my  plough — and  my  horses  too — 
My  cows  and  my  sheep  they  have — bid  me  adieu, 
I  care  not  while  you  remain,  love! 

Come,  vein  of  my  heart !  then  come  in  haste, 
You're  like  Ambrosia,  my  liquor  and  feast. 
My  forefathers  all  had  the  very  same  taste — 

For  the  genuine  dew  of  the  mountain. 
Oh!  Usquebaugh!  I  love  its  kiss! — 
My  guardian  spirit,  I  think  it  is. 
Had  my  christening  bowl  been  filled  with  this, 

I'd  have  swallowed  it — were  it  a  fountain. 

Many's  the  quarrel  and  fight  we've  had. 

And  many  a  time  you  made  me  mad. 

But  while  I've  a  heart — it  can  never  be  sad. 

When  you  smile  at  me  full  on  the  table; 
Surely  you  are  my  wife  and  brother — 
My  only  child — my  father  and  mother — 
My  outside  coat — I  have  no  other! 

Oh!  I'll  stand  by  you — while  1  am  able. 

If  family  pride  can  aught  avail, 

I've  the  sprightliest  kin  of  all  the  Gael — 

Brandy  and  Usquebaugh,  and  Ale ! 

But  Claret  untasted  may  pass  us; 
To  clash  with  the  clergy  were  sore  amiss. 
So,  for  righteousness  sake,  1  leave  tliem  this. 
For  Claret  the  gownsman's  comfort  is. 

When  they've   saved   us   with   matins   and 
masses. 


1  A  thousand  welcomes. 


TURLOUGH  O'CAROLAN. 


77 


GRACE  NUGENT. 

(translated   by   sir   SAMUEL    FERGUSON.) 

Brightest  blossom  of  the  spring 
Grace  the  sprightly  girl  I  sing ; 
Grace  who  bore  the  palm  of  mind 
From  all  the  rest  of  womankind. 
Wliomso'cr  the  fates  decree, 
Happy  fate  for  life  to  be, 
Day  and  night  my  coolun  near, 
Ache  or  pain  need  never  fear. 

Her  neck  outdoes  the  stately  swan, 
Her  radiant  face  the  summer  dawn; 
Happy  thrice  the  youth  for  whom 
The  fates  design  that  branch  of  bloom. 
Pleasant  are  thy  words  benign. 
Rich  those  azure  eyes  of  thine ; 
Ye  who  see  my  queen  beware 
Those  twisted  links  of  golden  hair. 

This  is  what  I  fain  would  say 
To  the  bird-voiced  lady  gay — 
Never  yet  conceived  the  heart, 
Joy  that  grace  could  not  impart, 
Fold  of  jewels,  case  of  pearls, 
Coolun  of  the  circling  curls ! 
More  I  say  not,  but  no  less. 
Drink  your  health  and  happiness. 


MILD   MABEL   KELLY. 

(TRANSLATED   BY   SIR   SAMUEL   FERGUSON.) 

Whoever  the  youth  who  by  Heaven's  decree 
Has  his  happy  right  hand  'neath  that  bright 
head  of  thine, 

'Tis  certain  that  he 
From  all  sorrow  is  free, 
Till  the  day  of  his  death,  if  a  life  so  divine 
Should  not  raise  him  in  bliss  above  mortal  degree. 
Mild  Mabel  Ni  Kelly,  bright  coolun  of  curls! 

All  stately  and  pure  as  the  swan  on  the  lake. 
Her  mouth  of  white  teeth  is  a  palace  of  pearls. 
And  the  youth  of  the  land  are  love-sick  for  her 
sake. 
No  strain  of  the  sweetest  e'er  heard  in  the  land 
That  she  knows  not  to  sing,  in  a  voice  so  en- 
chanting, 

That  the  cranes  on  the  sand 
Fall  asleep  where  they  stand. 
Oh,  for  her  blooms  the  rose,  and  the  lily  ne'er 
waiting 
To  shed  its  mild  lustre  on  bosom  or  hand. 
The  dewy  blue  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  spray 

More  blue  than  her  eyes  human  eye  never  saw. 
Deceit  never  lurked  in  its  beautiful  ray. 

Dear  lady,  1  drink  to  you,  slainte  go  brach  ! 
To  gaze  on  her  beauty  the  young  hunter  lies 
'Mong  the  branches  that  shadow  her  path  in  the 
grove. 


But,  alas,  if  her  eyes 
The  rash  gazer  surpri.se. 
All  eyesight  departs  from  the  victim  of  love, 
And  the  blind  youth  steals  home  with  his  heart 

full  of  sighs. 
0,  pride  of  the  Gael,  of  the  lily-white  palm ! 

0,  coolun  of  curls  to  the  grass  at  your  feet ! 
At  the  goal  of  delight  and  of  honour  I  am 
To  boast  such  a  theme  for  a  song  so  unmeet. 


O'MORE'S  FAIR   DAUGHTER: 


(TRANSLATED    BY   THOMAS   FURLONG.) 

Flower  of  the  young  and  fair, 

'Tis  joy  to  gaze  on  thee. 
Pride  of  the  gay  hills  of  Maill, 
Bright  daughter  of  the  princely  Gael, 

Wliat  words  thy  beauty  can  declare? 

What  eye  unmoved  thy  loveliness  can  see? 
Fond  object  of  the  wanderer's  praise. 
Source  of  the  poet's  love-fraught  lays. 

Theme  of  the  minstrel's  song. 
Child  of  the  old  renowned  O'More, 

What  charms  to  thee  belong ! 

Happy  is  he  who  wafts  thee  o'er 

To  yon  green  isle  where  berries  grow ; 

Happy  is  he  who  there  retired. 
Can  rest  him  by  thy  side, 

Marking  with  love's  delicious  frenzy  fired 
Thy  young  cheek's  changing  glow. 

And  all  the  melting  meaning  of  thine  eyes; 

While  round  and  round  him,  far  and  wide. 

On  the  shore  and  o'er  the  tide. 
Soft  strains  of  music  rise. 

Varying  through  each  winning  measure, 

Soothing  every  sense  to  pleasure. 
He  to  whom  such  joy  is  given 
Hath,  while  here,  his  share  of  heaven. 

Thy  step  is  life  and  liglituess, 
Thy  glance  hath  a  thrilling  brightness, 
Thj'  waist  is  straight  and  slender, 

And  thy  bosom,  gently  swelling. 
Outdoes  the  swan's  in  whiteness 

When  she  starts  from  her  tranquil  dwelling 
And  breasts  the  broad  lake  in  .splendour. 

Sweet  girl,  those  locks  so  wildly  curled. 

Have  snares  and  spells  for  many  : 
0,  far  may  we  range  througli  this  weary  world 
And  find  thee  unmatched  by  any. 

Art  thou  a  thing  of  earth? 

A  maid  of  terrestrial  birth? 
Or  a  vision  sent  from  high 

In  peerless  beauty  beaming. 
Like  the  shapes  tliat  pass  o'er  the  poet's  eye 

When  he  lies  all  idlv  dreaming. 


78 


JONATHAN    SWIFT. 


JONATHAN     SWIFT. 


Born  1667  — Died  1745. 


[In  the  siDring  of  1667  Jonathan  Swift,  full 
cousin  to  the  poet  Dryden,  and  steward  to  the 
Society  of  King's  Inns,  Dublin,  died  in  poor 
circumstances,  leaving  a  widow.  Seven  months 
later,  on  the  30th  of  November,  in  a  little 
house  in  Hoey's  Court,  the  poor  widow  gave 
birth  to  a  son,  who  was  named  Jonathan 
after  his  dead  father,  and  whose  life,  begun 
thus  miserably,  was  fated  to  be  one  constant 
round  of  warfare  and  suffering,  of  defeat  in 
victory  and  of  disappointment  in  success. 
Born  with  a  spirit  fitting  him  to  rule,  the 
greatest  satirist  of  England  felt  in  the  very 
first  years  of  his  life  the  cold  hand  of  poverty 
pressing  him  to  the  earth  and  branding  him 
a  slave. 

From  his  earliest  days  there  seemed  to  be 
something  in  Swift's  life  diff"erent  from  other 
men.  His  father  had  been  buried  at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  society  he  served ;  his  mother  and 
himself  were  kept  in  existence  by  the  scanty, 
and  we  believe  necessarily  scanty,  bounty  of 
his  uncle  Godwin.  Still,  it  seems  he  had  a 
nurse,  and  this  nurse,  like  other  women,  in 
after  days  became  so  attached  to  him,  that 
when  she  was  called  away  to  England  to  the 
death-bed  of  a  relative  she  carried  him  with 
her  clandestinely.  After  she  was  found  the 
mother  refused  to  insist  on  taking  the  child 
from  her,  fearing,  as  it  was  delicate,  that  it 
might  not  be  able  to  stand  the  fatigues  of  a 
voyage  from  Whitehaven  to  Ireland.  So  in 
Whitehaven  Swift  remained  three  or  four 
years,  and  there  learned  to  read  the  Bible  with 
ease. 

When  he  was  about  five  years  of  age  his 
nurse  carried  him  to  Ireland  again,  where, 
alas  !  there  was  now  no  kind  mother  to  receive 
him,  she  having  gone  to  live  with  a  rela- 
tive at  Leicester  in  England.  However,  the 
little  waif  was  taken  into  the  family  of  his 
uncle  Godwin,  by  whom,  at  six  years  of  age, 
he  was  sent  to  Kilkenny  school,  where  he  re- 
mained for  aliout  eight  years,  and  where,  says 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  his  name,  cut  in  school-boy 
fashion  upon  his  desk  or  form,  is  still  shown 
to  strangers.  There  he  learned  to  celebrate 
his  birthdays  by  reading  from  Job  the  fierce 
passage  in  which  that  patriarch  curses  the  day 
in  which  it  was  said  in  his  father's  house 
"that  a  man-child  was  born,"  and  there,  no 


doubt,  he  suffered  many  an  indignity  from  the 
poverty-stricken  state  in  which  he  was  main- 
tained by  an  uncle  who  seemed,  but  in  reality 
was  not,  rich. 

At  the  age  of  fourteen  he  was  entered  at 
the  University  of  Dublin,  being  on  the  24th 
of  April,  1682,  received  a  pensioner  under 
the  tuition  of  St.  George  Ashe.  His  cousin, 
Thomas  Swift,  was  also  admitted  at  the  same 
time,  and  owing  to  this  fact  and  to  the  mention 
of  the  names  in  the  college  record  without  any 
prsenomen  attached,  great  difficulty  has  arisen 
in  tracing  certain  details  of  their  lives.  At 
the  university  Swift  rebelled  against  having 
to  study  the  learned  sophistry  of  Smiglecius 
and  his  fellows.  Instead  he  dived  deeply  into 
studies  of  a  wide  but  desultory  kind,  and 
while  so  doing  drew  up,  J'ouug  as  he  was,  a 
rough  sketch  of  his  Tale  of  a  Tub.  Not  only 
did  he  rebel  against  Smiglecius  and  his  crew, 
he  rebelled  also  against  the  college  discipline, 
and  became  reckless  and  violent  in  other  re- 
sj^ects.  Like  Johnson  in  a  similar  condition 
he  "disregai^ded  all  power  and  all  authority;" 
he  was  "  miserably  poor,  mad,  and  violent," 
and  what  "  was  bitterness,  that  they  mistook 
for  frolic."  For  this  he  suffered  several  and 
severe  penalties,  and  in  February,  1685-6,  the 
heaviest  punishment  of  all  in  having  his  degree 
conferred  on  him  by  special  favour.  However, 
he  still  remained  in  college,  and  still  continued 
to  be  a  rebel  to  its  rules.  On  the  18th  of 
March,  1687,  he  was  publicly  admonished  for 
neglect  of  duties,  and  on  the  20th  of  November, 
1688,  he  and  some  others  were  convicted  of 
insolent  conduct  to  the  junior  dean,  and  he 
and  another  had  their  academical  degree  sus- 
pended, and  were  condemned  to  publicly  crave 
pardon  of  the  off"ended  dignitary. 

Whether  or  not  Swift  ever  submitted  to  the 
latter  degradation  is  imknown,  but  shortly 
afterwards  he  left  the  college  "without,"  as 
Scott  says,  "  a  single  friend  to  protect,  receive, 
or  maintain  him," — his  uncle  having  died  a 
year  or  two  before.  The  war  of  the  Revolution 
had  just  broken  out  in  Ireland,  so  he  turned 
his  back  upon  that  country,  and,  footsore  and 
weary,  presented  himself  at  his  mother's  resi- 
dence in  Leicestershire.  There  it  was  impos- 
sible for  him  to  remain,  as  his  mother  was 
herself  only  the  recipient  of  the  bounty  of  her 


JONATHAN    SWIFT 


After  the  Painting  by  MARK  HAM 


JONATHAN   SWIFT. 


friends,  and  an  inmate  of  a  house  which  was 
not  her  own.  However,  she  advised  liim  to 
apply  to  Sir  William  Temple,  a  retired  states- 
man, into  wliose  house  he  was  received  as 
amanuensis  at  a  salary  of  £20  a  year. 

At  Moor  Park,  near  Fiu-nham,  the  residence 
of  Temple,  Swift  resided  for  a  couple  of  years, 
in  the  earlier  part  of  which  he  was  treated  with 
coldness  and  distrust,  and  as  one  who  had  far 
too  confident  a  mien  and  too  presuming  a 
temper  for  one  so  poor.  However,  he  gradually 
grew  in  favour  as  his  worth  and  strength  be- 
came apparent,  and  aftei-  he  had  made  a  short 
visit  to  Ireland  for  the  good  of  his  health, 
Temple  took  him  into  confidence  so  far  as  to 
have  him  present  at  private  interviews  with 
the  king.  About  this  time  also  he  went  to 
Oxford,  where,  on  the  5th  of  July,  1692,  he  was 
admitted  to  the  degree  of  Master  of  Arts. 
At  Oxford  Swift  composed  his  first  extant 
poetical  work,  a  translation  of  the  eighteenth 
ode  of  the  second  book  of  Horace,  and  shortly 
after  he  attempted  a  higher  flight  in  the  pro- 
duction of  Pindaric  odes.  These  he  showed 
to  Dryden,  who  at  once  answered  decisively, 
"  Cousin  Swift,  you  will  never  be  a  poet." 
The  remark  was  never  forgiven  or  forgotten, 
for  to  the  proud  bitter  soul  of  Swift  it  seemed 
another  of  the  insults  to  which  his  youth  had 
been  subjected.  However,  notwithstanding 
Dryden's  opinion,  Swift  began  to  acquire  a 
literaiy  reputation,  and  to  make  friendships 
among  such  men  as  Congreve,  to  whom  in 
November,  1693,  he  addressed  a  copy  of  verses. 
In  these  vei-y  verses,  as  Scott  has  well  re- 
marked, he  shows  that  he  felt  confidence  in 
his  own  powers,  and  was  already  gifted  with 
that  "hate  for  fools"  which  made  him  so 
feared,  and  for  which  tlie  "  fools "  yet  make 
his  memory  pay  dearly. 

"  My  hate,  whose  lash  just  Heaven  had  long  decreed, 
Shall  on  a  day  make  sin  and  folly  bleed." 

After  Swift's  return  from  Oxford,  where  he 
had  been  flatteringly  received.  Temple  and  he 
grew  gradually  colder  to  each  other.  Swift 
saw  clearly  that  he  was  but  very  poorly  re- 
warded by  his  patron,  who  kept  him  in  his 
present  state  for  selfish  reasons  he  believed. 
Temple  looked  upon  Swift's  anxiety  for  ad- 
vancement as  ingratitude,  and  offered  him  a 
post  in  the  Rolls  Office  in  Ireland,  which  was, 
it  is  said,  expected  to  be  refused.  Swift  did 
refuse  it,  and  the  two  parted  in  mutual  bad 
temper.  Swift  made  another  foot  journey  to 
Leicester,  stayed  there  for  a  short  time  with 
his  mother,  then  went  over  to  Ireland,  deter- 


mined to  enter  holy  orders.  Before  being 
admitted  a  deacon  he  liad,  however,  to  write 
to  Sir  William  Temple  for  a  certificate  of  con- 
duct, and  this,  after  some  delay,  he  brought 
himself  to  do.  In  his  letter  he  made  admis- 
sions that  he  had  been  perhaps  over-hasty,  if 
not  absolutely  wrong  in  his  conduct,  and 
Temple  not  only  gave  him  the  certificate,  but 
pleaded  his  cause  with  Lord  Capel,  so  that  he 
was  at  once,  after  admission  to  deacon's  orders 
in  January,  1 694-5,  appointed  to  the  prebend 
of  Kilroot,  near  Carrickfergus,  worth  about 
i,'100  a  year. 

Swift's  stay  at  Kilroot  was  not  for  long. 
He  soon  became  weary  of  its  rude  society  and 
dulness.  SLr  William  found  that  he  had  lost 
an  indispensable  companion,  whose  real  value 
only  began  to  be  properly  seen  when  he  was 
no  longer  present.  Swift  soon  became  aware 
of  Sir  William's  desire  for  his  return,  but  for 
a  while  his  pride  caused  him  to  liesitate  how 
to  act.  At  last  this  was  decided  almost  by 
accident.  One  day  he  met  a  curate  with  whom 
he  had  formed  an  acquaintance,  and  who  had 
proved  to  be,  not  only  a  good  man  and  modest, 
but  well-learned  and  the  father  of  eight  chil- 
dren, whom  he  supported  on  an  income  of  £40 
a  year.  Borrowing  the  clergj^man's  horse, 
Swift  started  off  at  once  to  Dublin,  resigned 
his  preferment,  and  obtained  a  gi-ant  of  it  for 
the  poor  curate,  who  was  so  affected  with 
gratitude  that  the  benefactor  never  forgot  the 
pleasure  of  the  good  deed  so  long  as  he  lived. 

On  Swift's  return  to  Moor  Park,  in  1695, 
he  was  treated  "  rather  as  a  confidential  friend 
than  a  dependent  companion,"  and  the  two 
great  men  soon  became  really  fast  friends. 
Once  more  settling  down  to  work  Swift  com- 
pleted his  7'ale  of  a  Tub,  and  also  wrote  The 
Battle  of  the  Books,  neither  of  which  was 
published  till  1704.  The  latter  was  wi-itten 
in  defence  of  Temple's  side  in  an  argument 
into  which  that  statesman  had  got  involved 
as  to  the  relative  values  of  ancient  and  modern 
learning.  Dui'ing  thissecond  residenceat  Moor 
Park  Swift  made  the  acquaintance  of  Esther 
.Johnson,  whom  he  has  immortalized  as  Stella, 
an  event  the  most  unfortunate  in  his  life,  as 
giving  a  handle  to  his  enemies  to  vilify  his 
name.  In  January,  1698-9,  Sir  William 
Temple  died,  and  the  four  quietest  and  hap- 
piest years  of  Swift's  life  were  brought  sharply 
to  an  end.  In  his  will  Sir  William  left  his 
secretaiy  .£100,  and,  what  was  looked  upon 
as  of  much  gi-eater  value  than  the  money,  his 
literary  remains.  These  Swift  edited  care- 
fully, and  published  with  a  dedication  to  King 


80 


JONATHAN   SWIFT. 


William.  A  petition  also  was  presented  to 
the  king  I'eminding  him  of  his  promise  to  Sir 
William  to  bestow  a  prebend  of  Canterbury 
or  Westminster  on  Swift;  but  as  the  dead 
statesman's  services  could  no  longer  be  turned 
to  account,  his  secretary's  talents  and  claims 
ceased  to  have  any  force,  and  Swift  never 
even  had  an  answer  to  his  request.  After 
long  waiting,  which  must  have  been  bitter 
indeed  to  his  haughty  spirit,  he  accepted  an 
offer  of  the  Earl  of  Berkeley,  one  of  the  lord- 
justices,  and  went  with  that  nobleman  to  Ire- 
land as  chiiplain  and  private  secretary.  Before 
long  an  intriguer  of  the  name  of  Bushe  was 
appointed  to  the  place  of  private  secretary, 
amends  being  promised  to  Swift  in  the  shape 
of  the  first  good  church  living  that  should 
become  vacant.  In  this  Swift  was  again  dis- 
appointed and  tricked.  The  rich  deanery  of 
Derry  fell  vacant,  but  Bushe,  who  seems  rap- 
idly to  have  gained  influence  over  Berkeley, 
declared  Swift  should  not  have  it  without  a 
bribe  of  ^1000.  Swift  classing  master  and 
man  together  as  partners  in  the  vile  transac- 
tion, burst  into  an  impetuous  cry — "  God  con- 
found you  both  for  a  couple  of  scoundrels  !" — 
and  on  the  instant  departed  from  his  lodgings 
in  the  castle.  Berkeley,  alarmed  at  the  thought 
of  Swift's  satiric  lash,  hastened  to  patch  up 
the  breach,  and  the  vicarages  of  Laracor  and 
Rathbeggan  and  the  rectory  of  Agher,  all  in 
the  diocese  of  Meath,  were  conferred  upon  him. 
These  were  altogether  worth  about  ^270  a 
year,  not  half  the  value  of  the  deanery  with- 
held, but  Swift  accepted  them.  Berkeley  and 
Swift  never  were  real  friends  again,  but  Lady 
Berkeley  and  her  two  daughters  still  retained 
the  esteem  of  the  late  secretary,  and  one  of  the 
daughters.  Lady  Elizabeth,  remained  to  the 
end  of  his  days  one  of  his  most  valued  corre- 
spondents. 

At  Laracor  he  preached  regularly  on  Sun- 
days, and  said  prayers  twice  a  week — on  Wed- 
nesdays and  Fridays — a  thing  not  then  much 
in  vogue.  The  church,  which  was  in  a  sad 
state  of  dilajiidation,  he  repaired,  as  well  as 
the  vicarage,  which  had  almost  fallen  into  ruin 
through  the  avarice  of  former  incumbents. 
"  He  increased  the  glebe  from  one  acre  to 
twenty."  He  also  purchased  the  tithes  of 
Effernock,  and  settled  them  by  will  upon  the 
incumbent  of  that  living. 

While  these  things  were  being  done,  Stella, 
and  Mrs.  Dingley  her  companion,  took  up  their 
aliode  in  the  town  of  Trim,  near  at  hand. 
Johnson,  like  nearly  all  Swift's  biographers, 
calls  her  "  the   unfortunate   Stella,"   but   we 


cannot  see  how  the  appellation  is  justified. 
Her  connection  with  Swift  has  made  her  name 
remembered,  which  it  otherwise  would  never 
have  been ;  while  in  the  company,  conversa- 
tion, and  confidence  of  such  a  master  mind 
she  had  a  full  recompense  for  sacrifices  treble 
those  she  seemed  to  make.  Whether  in  the  end 
Swift  did  or  did  not  marry  her  is  a  matter  of 
little  moment,  and  a  thing  impossible  to  de- 
termine. It  is  sufficient  for  us  to  know  that 
he  and  she  were  pure  true  friends  to  the  last, 
and  that,  so  far  at  anyrate  as  he  was  concerned, 
no  trace  of  lower  passion  was  allowed  to  enter 
into  their  intercourse.  To  avoid  scandal  he 
and  she  continued  to  live  apart ;  she  and  Mi-s. 
Dingley  occupying  the  parsonage  in  his  ab- 
sence, but  retiring  from  it  on  his  return.  They 
also  took  care  never  to  meet  except  in  the 
presence  of  a  third  party,  a  piece  of  precaution 
that  evidently  originated  with  Swift. 

In  1701  Swift's  career  began  in  earnest  by 
the  publication  anonymously  of  his  treatise  on 
Dissensions  in  Athens  and  Borne,  a  work  in 
which  he  showed  how  easy  it  is  for  liberty,  by 
degenerating  into  license,  to  force  itself  to  be 
extinguished  by  tyranny.  The  work  made  a 
great  stir,  and  was  attributed  successively  to 
Lord  Somers  and  Bishop  Burnet — Burnet,  to 
escape  an  impeachment  by  the  commons, 
being  reduced  to  make  a  public  disavowal  of 
any  share  in  the  work,  though  in  private  he 
was  no  way  oflfended  at  having  it  attributed 
to  him.  In  1702,  on  a  visit  to  England,  Swift 
publicly  avowed  the  authorship.  In  1704 
appeared  The  Tale  of  a  Tub  and  The  Battle  of 
the  Books.  The  first  of  these  at  once  placed 
Swift  in  the  very  foremost  rank  of  living 
writers,  and  showed  to  the  world  and  to  the 
friends  that  flocked  around  him  —  Addison, 
Steele,  and  Arbuthnot,  Somers  and  Halifax 
^that  a  new  and  tremendous  literary  force 
had  arisen  in  their  midst.  In  The  Tale  of  a 
Tub  Swift  presents  as  an  allegory  three  sons 
who  mistook,  altered,  observed,  and  neglected 
the  will  of  their  father.  In  the  records  of 
their  conduct  he  satirizes  the  corruptions  and 
follies  of  the  churches.  At  the  same  time  in 
his  digressions  he  points  his  sarcastic  thrusts 
at  the  pedants,  authors,  and  critics  of  his  own 
and  future  times.  It  gave  oflTence  in  many 
high  quarters,  however ;  notably  to  Queen 
Anne,  who  never  forgave  him  for  writing  it, 
and  who  would  never  afterwards  listen  to  his 
having  the  bishopric  which  he  desired,  earned, 
and  deserved.  Four  years  later,  tliat  is  in  1708, 
appeared  The  Sentiments  of  a  Church  of  Eng- 
land   Man;    Arguments    against   Abolishing 


JONATHAN   SWIFT. 


81 


Christianity;  Letter  upon  the  Sacramental  Test; 
aud  the  witty  ridicule  of  astrology  uuder  the 
name  of  Bickerstaff  Predictions  for  1708  (pub- 
lished at  the  end  of  1707).  The  tirstwork  "is 
written,"  says  Johnson,  "  with  great  coolness, 
moderation,  ease,  and  perspicuity;"  aud  the 
second  "  is  a  very  happy  and  judicious  irony." 
Next  year  he  published  his  Project  for  the 
Advancement  of  Learning,  as  well  as  the  Vin- 
dication of  Bickerstaff,  and  the  curious  ex- 
planation of  an  Ancient  Prophecy.  In  1710, 
on  the  persuasion  of  the  primate  of  Ireland, 
Swift  solicited  the  queen  for  a  remission 
of  the  first-fruits  and  twentieth  parts  to  the 
Irish  clergy.  In  doing  this  he  was  joined  by 
the  Bishops  of  Ossory  and  Killaloe,  but  the 
matter  was  to  be  left  entirely  in  his  hands  in 
case  the  bishops  left  London  before  it  was 
brought  to  an  end.  Starting  on  his  journey  to 
London  on  the  1st  of  September,  he  reached 
Chester  on  the  2d,  and  there  wrote  the  first 
of  the  letters  in  his  Journal  to  Stella.  When 
he  reached  London  he  was  full  of  bitterness 
against  the  fallen  Whigs,  who  had  neglected 
him,  and  on  the  1st  October  he  wrote  Sid 
Hamet's  Rod,  a  lampoon  on  Lord  Godolphin. 
On  the  4th  he  was  introduced  to  Harley,  and 
by  Harley  he  was  presented  to  St.  John,  and 
between  him  and  these  two  ministers  a  friend- 
ship, begun  in  interest  but  ended  in  genuine 
feeling,  immediately  commenced.  Almost  at 
once  he  became  a  close  adviser,  and  was  ad- 
mitted to  the  meetings  of  the  ministry.  On 
the  10th  November,  1710,  appeared  Swift's 
first  number  of  The  Examiner,  in  which,  till 
the  14th  of  June,  1711,  a  space  of  seven 
months,  "  he  bore  the  battle  upon  his  single 
shield  " — a  battle  in  which  he  found  opposed 
to  him  all  the  friends  he  had  made  on  his 
previous  visits  to  London — Steele,  Addison, 
Congreve,  Howe,  Burnet.  But  he  was  more 
than  a  match  for  them  all,  and  one  after 
another  he  planted  his  rankling  shafts  in  the 
bosoms  of  Wharton,  Somers,  Marlborough, 
Sunderland,  and  Godolphin.  Against  Whar- 
ton he  poured  out  the  very  vials  of  his  wrath 
in  his  Short  Character  of  the  Earl  of  Wharton. 
In  the  midst  of  the  turmoil  he  did  not  forget 
the  mission  on  which  he  had  left  Ireland,  and 
at  last,  owing  to  the  influence  he  acquired  over 
the  ministers, he  brought  it  to  a  successful  issue 
just  at  the  moment  the  bishops,  with  wonder- 
ful stupidity,  recalled  his  commission  on  the 
pretext  of  putting  it  in  the  hands  of  the  Duke 
of  Ormond.  In  the  latter  part  of  November, 
1711,  a  few  days  before  the  meeting  of  par- 
liament, appeared  his  treatise  on  The  Conduct 
Vol.  1. 


of  the  Allies,  of  which,  in  the  space  of  a  week, 
four  editions  were  swallowed  by  the  public. 
To  this  treatise  is  attributed  the  conclusion  of 
the  peace  of  Utrecht.  It  was  a  masterly  piece 
of  political  workmanship,  drawn  up  with  great 
care  and  skill,  and  carried  public  opinion  with 
it  in  a  wave.  The  Whigs  denounced  it  vio- 
lently, and  even  Walpole  and  Aislabie  urged 
that  Swift  should  be  impeached  at  the  bar  of 
the  House  of  Lords.  However,  he  took  no 
notice  of  the  little  storm,  and  continued  his 
work  for  his  friends  by  drawing  up  The  Re- 
presentation of  the  House  of  Commons  on  the 
State  of  the  Nation,  and  An  Address  of  Thanks 
to  the  Queen.  In  July,  1711,  he  wrote  his 
Proposal  for  Correcting,  Improving,  and  As- 
certaining the  English  Tongue,  which  was 
published  in  May,  1712.  In  1712  also  ap- 
peared the  Reflections  on  the  Barrier  Treaty, 
and  his  Remarks  o;i  the  Bishop  of  Sarum^s  In- 
troduction to  his  Third  Volume  of  the  History 
of  the  Reformation,  a  bitter  reply  to  the  bishop's 
pamphlet.  Meanwhile,  as  occasion  ofi"ered,  he 
busied  himself  in  good  offices  for  his  friends, 
even  for  those  who,  for  political  reasons,  had 
become  his  enemies.  "Congreve,  Rowe,  and 
Philips  experienced  in  their  turn  the  benefits 
of  his  intercession,"  says  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
"  and  it  appears  he  was  really  anxious  to  be  of 
service  to  Steele."  He  smoothed  Parnell's  way 
for  him,  and  caused  him  to  receive  "that 
prompt  attention  which  is  most  flattering  to 
the  modesty  of  merit."  Pope  had  his  warmest 
support  while  at  work  over  Homer,  and  Gay 
was  made  known  to  Bolingbroke  through  him. 
Berkeley  also  "  owed  to  Swift  those  introduc- 
tions which  placed  him  in  the  way  to  pro- 
motion." Dr.  King,  an  antagonist,  he  caused 
to  be  made  gazetteer,  and  later  on,  Prior,  when 
in  distress,  received  from  him  efi'ectual  assist- 
ance and  advice. 

Meanwhile  his  desire  for  a  life  of  ease  began 
to  assert  itself,  aud  Swift  called  upon  his  min- 
isterial friends  to  redeem  the  promises  of 
"  doing  something  for  him "  which  they  had 
so  often  made,  ;\s  a  compensation  for  his  ser- 
vices as  a  writer  for  the  press,  &c.,  which  they 
found  invaluable.  The  ])olicy  of  the  Tory 
party  was  to  bring  about  a  peace  and  draw 
with  them  the  popular  feeling.  In  this  Swift's 
pen  eflected  what  no  other  means  in  their 
power  was  sufficient  to  produce.  In  his  writ- 
ings he  pointed  out  the  attempts  of  the  Dutch 
to  get  the  better  of  England  in  all  their  treat- 
ies, and  also  represented  the  financial  loss  of 
the  country  in  consequence  of  a  war  which 
would  have  been  ended  but  for  the  ambition 


82 


JONATHAN   SWIFT. 


of  Marlborough,  to  whom  alone  its  prolonga- 
tion would  be  au  advantage.  A  bishopric  was 
the  least  he  expected  and  deserved,  and  there 
is  no  doubt  that,  on  a  vacancy  occurring  in  the 
see  of  Hereford,  Bolingbroke  struggled  hard 
that  he  should  have  it.  But  au  angry  woman 
stood  in  the  way.  The  Duchess  of  Somerset 
had  been  ridiculed  by  Swift  in  his  Windsor 
Prophecy  some  time  before,  and  she  now  used 
all  a  clever  woman's  skill  to  keep  him  down. 
Joined  to  her  was  Archbishop  Sharpe  of  York, 
who  did  not  scrujjle  to  describe  The  Tale  of  a 
Tub  as  "a  satire  on  religion  in  general,  and  the 
writer  as  little  better  than  an  infidel."  The 
result  was  that  the  queen  would  not  even  see 
Swift,  a  piece  of  woman's  folly  which  he  gen- 
erously repaid  by  never  once  allowing  his  pen 
to  say  a  single  bitter  word  of  her.  Finally  it 
was  arranged  that  Dr.  Sterne  should  be  pro- 
moted from  the  deanery  of  St.  Patrick's  in 
Dublin  to  the  bishopric  of  Dromore,  and  Swift 
was  prevailed  upon  to  become  a  dean.  Early 
in  June,  1713,  he  departed  for  Ireland,  feeling 
more  like  a  person  going  into  exile  than  one 
returning  to  his  native  land. 

In  a  letter  to  Stella  he  says,  "  At  my  first 
coming  I  thought  I  should  have  died  with 
discontent,  and  was  honibly  melancholy  whUe 
they  were  installing  me,  but  it  begins  to  wear 
off,  and  change  to  dulness."  In  a  fortnight's 
time,  however,  he  was  recalled  to  England  to 
reconcile  Harley  and  Bolingbroke,  between 
whom  a  feud  had  broken  out,  and  upon  whose 
cordial  co-operation  and  confidence  the  success 
of  their  government  entirely  depended.  Swift 
brought  about  an  interview,  and  a  temporary 
reconciliation  was  eifected.  But  perfect  con- 
fidence between  the  two  was  impossible,  and 
the  feud  broke  out  again,  bringing  in  its  train 
ruin  and  disaster. 

Scarcely  had  Swift  found  himself  in  London 
again  when  he  too  became  a  party  to  a  bitter 
feud  between  himself  and  Steele,  in  which 
Steele  shows  to  much  advantage.  Swift  con- 
ducted himself  with  fierceness  and  cruelty, 
and  showed  all  his  wit;  Steele  wrote  well 
and  manfully,  and  conducted  himself  with  con- 
siderable generosity.  It  was  the  unappeas- 
able Achilles  and  the  more  humane  Hector 
over  again,  though  the  Hector  in  this  case  was 
not  dragged  at  the  chariot-wheels  of  his  rival. 
Steele  in  his  Crisis  admired  the  wisdom  of  the 
union  and  praised  the  Scottish  nation.  Swift 
took  the  opposite  side,  and  as  he  "  disliked  the 
Scots  and  had  quarrelled  with  Argyll,"  he  spoke 
of  the  Scots  in  The  Public  Spirit  of  the  Whigs, 
an  answer   to  The  Crisis,  as  "a  poor  fierce 


northern  people."  The  Scotch  lords  took  the 
gibes  flung  at  them  very  ill,  and  through  their 
influence  three  hundred  pounds  were  offered 
for  the  discovery  of  the  author  of  the  pamph- 
let. Morphew  the  bookseller  and  Barber  the 
printer  were  both  arrested.  However,  by  the 
management  of  the  ministry  the  storm  was 
played  with  till  it  had  blown  itself  out,  and 
Swift,  at  one  moment  in  great  danger,  soon 
found  himself  of  greater  importance  than 
ever. 

By  this  time  matters  between  Oxford  and 
Bolingbroke  had  reached  such  a  height  that 
Swift  had  once  more  to  try  to  reconcile  them. 
The  attempt  failed,  and  he  retired,  telling  them 
that  "all  was  gone,"  and  that  he  "would  go 
to  Oxfoi'd  on  Monday,  since  he  found  it  was 
impossible  to  be  of  any  use."  On  the  Monday 
he  set  out  for  Oxford,  and  at  the  house  of  Mr. 
Gery,  Upper  Letcomb,  Berkshire,  he  composed 
his  Free  Thoughts  on  the  State  of  Public  Affairs. 
This  he  sent  to  Barber,  Barber  showed  it  to 
Bolingbroke,  Bolingbroke  at  once  added  to  it 
svich  things  as  made  it  very  hurtful  to  Oxford, 
and  Swift  hearing  of  this  demanded  its  return. 
After  some  delay  the  MS.  was  returned  to  its 
author.  A  little  later,  and  before  anything 
could  be  done  to  heal  the  breach  in  the  Tory 
ranks,  Queen  Anne  died.  Bolingbroke  and 
Ormond  fled  the  country ;  Oxford,  Wyndham, 
Prior,  and  others  were  imprisoned  ;  and  Swift, 
finding  that  the  spirit  of  the  Tories  was  utterly 
broken,  retired  into  Ireland,  where  he  was 
very  badly  received  and  insulted  at  first. 

Very  soon,  however,  Swift  began  to  make 
himself  at  home  in  his  new  sphere.  He  ob- 
tained lodgings  for  Stella  and  Mrs.  Dingley 
in  a  house  on  Ormond's  Quay.  He  himself 
took  possession  of  the  deanery-house,  where 
twice  a  week  he  entertained  such  people  as  the 
Grattans,  Rev.  Mr.  Jackson,  George  Roche- 
fort,  Peter  Ludlow,  Dr.  Walonsley,  Dr.  Hel- 
sham.  Dr.  Sheridan,  Mr.  Stopford,  and  Dr. 
Delany.  However,  before  long  a  bird  of  ill 
omen  appeared  in  Dublin  in  the  shape  of  Miss 
Vanhomrigh,  "Vanessa,"  whose  acquaintance 
Swift  had  made  while  in  London,  and  who 
seemed  to  think,  though  without  any  founda- 
tion for  the  thought,  that  he  was  likely  to 
marry  her.  Her  appearance  roused  the  jeal- 
ousy of  Stella  and  made  Swift  fear  for  his 
reputation.  He  spoke  to  her  harshly  of  her 
conduct,  but  she  re))lied  with  tears,  and  fear- 
ing that  decisive  measures  might  lead  to  some 
tragic  ending,he  began  a  system  of  temporizing 
between  the  two  foolish  women,  and  entered 
upon  that  course  of  misery  which  ended  in  liis 


JONATHAN   SWIFT. 


83 


madness.  However,  in  the  year  1716,  as  some 
say,  he  consented  to  a  marriage  with  Stella  on 
condition  that  it  was  kept  a  perfect  secret, 
and  that  their  old  course  of  life  was  continued. 
That  it  ever  took  place  we  can  hardly  believe, 
and  certain  it  is,  more  evidence  than  that  at 
present  existing  is  required  to  establish  the 
fact.  Anyhow,  after  this  time  Swift  seems 
to  have  redoubled  his  efforts  to  make  Vanessa 
forget  her  w^retched  p;ission.  But  she  grew 
only  the  more  headstrong,  and  in  1717  she 
retired  like  a  moiu'ning  hermit  to  her  house 
and  property  at  Celbridge.  Here  she  was 
occasionally  visited  by  Swift,  and  to  her  while 
hei-e  he  addressed  his  finest  poem  Cadenus 
and  Vanessa.  In  1720  Vanessa's  sister  died, 
and  left  alone  in  the  world  she  made  a  last 
effort  to  secure  Swift  by  writing  to  Stella  to 
know  what  relations  existed  between  the  two. 
Stella  in  a  rage  declared  herself  the  wife  of 
the  dean,  and  sent  him  Vanessa's  letter.  Swift's 
rage  was  terrific.  Mounting  a  horse  he  rode 
at  once  to  the  residence  of  Vanessa,  and  with 
a  face  full  of  the  bitterest  anger  and  contempt 
flung  her  letter  on  the  table  before  her.  Then 
he  dashed  out  of  the  house  and  rode  madly 
back  to  Dublin.  In  a  few  weeks  the  news 
reached  him  that  the  passionate  woman  was 
dead  of  a  broken  heart,  having  before  dying 
revoked  a  wiU  made  in  his  favour,  and  made 
another  by  which  she  left  all  she  possessed  to 
Dr.  Berkeley  and  Mr.  Marshall,  afterwards  a 
judge  in  the  Irish  Court  of  Common  Pleas. 

From  1716  to  1720  there  is  good  reason  to 
believe  Swift  was  engaged  in  reading  up  for 
and  in  planning  and  writing  portions  of  his 
Gulliver's  Travels.  In  1720  his  indignation  at 
the  treatment  of  Ireland  vented  itself  in  A 
Proposal  for  the  Universal  Use  of  Irish  Manu- 
factures, flfic,  utterly  rejecting  and  renounc- 
ing everything  wearable  that  comes  from 
England.  This  made  him  at  once  very  popular, 
and  roused  the  anger  of  the  authoi'ities  to  such 
a  pitch  that  the  printer  was  prosecuted.  In 
1723,  after  much  intrigue,  one  Wood  procured 
a  patent  to  coin  £180,000  in  copper  for  the 
use  of  Ireland,  by  which  he  would  have  made 
enormous  gain  at  the  cost  of  the  people.  To 
prevent  the  carrying  out  of  the  evil  scheme 
Swift  in  1724  wrote  the  Drapier  Letters,  and 
at  once  became  a  power  great  as  that  of 
O'Connell  in  after  days.  After  a  tremendous 
stir  and  a  bold  attempt  by  the  government 
to  overcome  him  by  prosecuting  the  printer, 
Swift  carried  the  day.  The  government  yield- 
ed, and  Wood's  patent  was  surrendered  for  a 
yearly  grant  of  £3000  for  twelve  years. 


In  1726  Swift  visited  England,  where  he 
was  gladly  received  by  all  his  old  friends, 
but  in  the  autumn  of  that  year  he  hurried 
back  to  Ireland  on  hearing  of  the  illness 
of  Stella.  However,  he  left  behind  him  in 
London  the  MS.  of  Gulliver's  Travels,  and  in 
November  the  work  appeared.  The  iniblic 
went  wild  over  it.  "  It  was  read  by  the 
high  and  the  low,  the  learned  and  illiterate. 
Criticism  was  for  a  while  lost  in  wonder." 
"  Perhaps,"  says  Scott,  "  no  work  ever  exhi- 
bited such  general  attractions  for  all  classes." 
At  Voltaire's  suggestion  it  was  translated 
into  French.  By  March,  1727,  Stella  had 
so  much  recovered  that  Swift  returned  to 
England,  where  he  was  again  well  received; 
and  in  the  same  month  appeared  the  three 
volumes  of  Miscellanies  in  which  his  name  ap- 
pears with  that  of  Pope,  to  whom  he  gave  the 
total  profits  of  this  as  well  as  the  copyright 
of  Gidliver.  After  a  time  he  was  attacked 
with  a  heavy  illness,  and  hearing  that  Stella 
was  once  more  unwell  he  left  England  for  the 
last  time  in  October,  1727.  In  January, 
1727-28,  Stella  died,  and  from  that  day  for- 
ward a  cloud  seemed  to  have  fallen  upon  him. 
He  grew  morose  and  passionate,  "  intolerable 
to  his  fi'iends,  unendurable  to  himself."  In 
1736,  while  engaged  writing  a  poem  called 
The  Legion  Club,  he  was  seized  with  a  very 
long-continued  fit,  and  he  never  after  at- 
tempted any  work  of  importance.  Before  that, 
between  1730  and  1735,  he  wrote  his  Rhapsody 
on  Poetry  and  Verses  on  his  Own  Death.  From 
1737  to  1739  he  busied  himself  in  preparing 
for  publication  his  History  of  the  Peace  of 
Utrecht,  which,  however,  he  withheld  from  the 
press;  and  in  doing  the  same  duty  by  Direc- 
tions to  Servants,  which  appeared  after  his 
death.  In  the  summer  of  1740,  on  the  26th 
July,  in  a  pathetic  note  to  his  cousin  Mi-s. 
White  way,  the  last  words  that  he  was  to 
write  passed  from  his  pen.  Soon  after  this 
his  mind  failed  him  completely,  and  in  the 
next  year  he  broke  out  into  violent  lunacy. 
In  1742  reason  returned  for  a  few  days,  but 
only  to  mock  the  hopes  of  his  friends,  and 
on  the  19th  of  October,  1745,  he  passed  away 
so  quietly  that  those  who  watched  him  scarce 
knew  the  moment  of  his  departure. 

To  make  any  lengthened  comment  here  on 
Swift's  woi-ks  would  be  almost  an  impertin- 
ence. We  can  scarcely  do  better  than  follow 
the  example  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  who  closes 
his  Memoirs  of  Swift  with  the  following  quota- 
tion from  "  the  learned  and  candid  Granger : " 

"  Swift  was  blessed  in  a  higher  degree  than 


84 


JONATHAN   SWIFT. 


any  of  his  contemporaries  with  the  powers 
of  a  creative  genius.  The  more  we  dwell 
upon  the  character  and  writings  of  this 
great  man,  the  more  they  improve  upon  us ; 
in  whatever  light  we  view  him,  he  still  ap- 
pears to  be  an  original.  His  wit,  his  humour, 
his  patriotism,  his  charity,  and  even  his 
piety,  were  of  a  diffei'ent  cast  from  those  of 
other  men.  He  had  in  his  virtues  few  equals, 
and  in  his  talents  no  superior.  In  that  of 
humour,  and  more  especially  in  irony,  he  ever 
was,  and  probably  ever  will  be,  unrivalled. 
.  .  .  His  style,  which  generally  consists  of 
the  most  naked  and  simple  terms,  is  strong, 
clear,  and  expressive ;  famiHar  without  vul- 
garity or  meanness ;  and  beautiful,  without 
ali'ectation  or  ornament.  .  .  .  His  writings,  in 
general,  are  regarded  as  standing  models  of 
our  language,  as  well  as  perpetual  monuments 
of  their  author's  fame."] 


EXTRACT 

(FBOM    "the   journal   to   STELLA"). 

I  know  it  is  neither  wit  nor  diversion  to 
tell  you  every  day  where  I  dine ;  but  I  fancy 
I  shall  have,  some  time  or  other,  the  curiosity 
of  seeing  some  particulars  how  I  passed  my 
life  when  I  was  absent  from  M.  D.  this  time ; 
and  so  I  tell  you  now  that  I  dined  to-day  at 
Molesworth's,  the  Florence  envoy's;  then  went 
to  the  coffee-house,  where  I  behaved  myself 
coldly  enough  to  Mr.  Addison  ;  and  so  came 
home  to  scribble.  We  dine  together  to- 
morrow and  next  day  by  invitation ;  but  I 
shall  alter  my  behaviour  to  him  till  he 
begs  my  pardon,  or  else  we  shall  grow  bare 
acquaintance.  I  am  weary  of  friends  and 
friendships  are  all  monsters  but  M.  D.'s.  .  .  . 
How  do  I  know  whether  china  be  dear  or 
not?  I  once  took  a  fancy  of  resolving  to 
grow  mad  for  it,  but  now  it  is  off.  And  so 
you  only  want  some  salad-dishes  and  plates, 
and  &c.  Yes,  yes,  you  shall.  I  suppose  you 
have  named  as  much  as  will  cost  five  pounds. 
Now  to  Stella's  little  postscript;  and  I  am 
almost  crazed  that  you  vex  yourself  for  not 
writing.  Cannot  you  dictate  to  Dingley  and 
not  strain  your  little  dear  eyes?  I  am  sure 
it  is  the  grief  of  my  soul  to  tliink  you  are 
out  of  order.  Pray  be  quiet,  and  if  you  will 
write,  shut  your  eyes,  and  write  just  a  line 
and  no  more,  thus:  Jfow  do  yoii,  do,  Mrs. 
Stella?  That  was  written  witli  my  eyes 
shut.     .     .     .     O    then,   you   kept    Presto's 


little  birthday?  Would  to  God  I  had  been 
with  you  !  Rediculous,  Madam !  I  suppose 
you  mean  ridiculous'?  I  have  mended  it  in 
your  letter.  And  can  Stella  read  this  writ- 
ing without  hurting  her  dear  eyes  ?  O  faith, 
I  am  afraid  not.  Have  a  care  of  those  eyes, 
pretty  Stella.  .  .  .  What,  will  you  still 
have  the  imjjudence  to  write  London,  Eng- 
land, because  I  write  Dublin,  Ireland  1  Is 
there  no  difference  between  London  and 
Dublin,  saucy-boxes?  The  session,  I  doubt, 
will  not  be  over  till  the  end  of  April ;  how- 
ever I  shall  not  wait  for  it  if  the  ministry 
will  let  me  go  sooner.  I  wish  I  were  just 
now  in  my  little  garden  at  Laracor.  I 
would  set  out  for  Dublin  early  on  Monday, 
and  bring  you  an  account  of  my  young 
trees.  ...  I  would  fain  be  at  the  begin- 
ning of  my  willows-growing.  Percival  tells 
me  that  the  quicksets  upon  the  flat  in  the 
garden  do  not  grow  so  well  as  those  famous 
ones  in  the  ditch.  They  want  digging  about 
them.  The  cherry-trees  by  the  river-side  I 
have  set  my  heart  upon.  .  .  .  See  how  my  style 
is  altered  by  living  and  thinking  and  talking 
among  these  people  instead  of  my  canal  and 
river  walk  and  willows.  Yes,  faith,  I  hope 
in  God,  Presto  and  M.  D.  will  be  together 
this  time  twelvemonths.  What  then  ?  Last 
year,  I  suppose,  I  was  at  Laracor ;  but  next 
I  hope  to  eat  my  Michaelmas  goose  at  my 
little  goose's  lodgings.  I  drink  no  aile  (I 
suppose  you  mean  ale),  but  yet  good  wine 
every  day  of  five  or  six  shillings  the  bottle. 
O  Lord,  how  much  Stella  writes.  Pray  do 
not  carry  that  too  far,  young  woman,  but  be 
temperate  to  hold  out.  .  .  .  Percival  tells 
me  he  can  sell  your  horse.  Pray  let  him 
know  that  he  shall  sell  his  soul  as  soon. 
What !  Sell  anything  that  Stella  loves, 
and  may  be  rides!  And  so  God  Almighty 
protect  poor,  dear,  dear,  deai',  dearest  M.  D, 
'Night,  dearest  little  M.  D. 


ON   THE   DEATH   OF   MRS.  JOHNSON 

(stella). 

This  day,  being  Sunday,  January  28, 
1727-28,  about  eight  o'clock  at  night,  a 
servant  brought  me  a  note,  with  an  account 
of  the  death  of  the  truest,  most  virtuous, 
and  valuable  friend  that  I,  or  perliaps  any 
other  person  was  ever  blessed  with.  She 
expired  about  six  in  the  evening  of  this 
day;  and  as  soon  as  I  am  left  alone,  which 


JONATHAN   SWIFT. 


85 


is  about  eleven  at  night,  I  resolve,  for  my 
own  satisfaction,  to  say  something  of  her  life 
and  character. 

She  was  born  at  Richmond,  in  Surrey,  on 
the  13th  day  of  March,  in  the  year  1681. 
Her  father  was  a  younger  brother  of  a  good 
family  in  Nottinghamshire,  her  mother  of  a 
lower  degree ;  and  indeed  she  had  little  to 
boast  of  her  birth.  I  knew  her  from  six 
years  old,  and  had  some  share  in  her  edu- 
cation by  directing  what  books  she  should 
read,  and  perpetually  instructing  her  in  the 
principles  of  honour  and  viitue,  from  which 
she  never  swerved  in  any  one  action  or 
moment  of  her  life.  She  was  sickly  from 
her  childhood  until  about  the  age  of  fifteen, 
but  then  grew  into  perfect  health,  and  was 
looked  upon  as  one  of  the  most  beautiful, 
graceful,  and  agreeable  women  in  London, 
only  a  little  too  fat.  Her  hair  was  blacker 
than  a  raven,  and  every  feature  of  her  face 
in  perfection.  She  lived  generally  in  the 
country,  with  a  family  where  she  contracted 
an  intimate  friendship  with  another  lady  of 
more  advanced  years.  I  was  then,  to  my 
mortification,  settled  in  Ireland;  about  a 
year  after,  going  to  visit  my  friends  in 
England,  I  found  she  was  a  little  uneasy 
upon  the  death  of  a  person  on  whom  she 
had  some  dependence.  Her  fortune,  at 
that  time,  was  in  all  not  above  £1.500,  the 
interest  of  which  was  but  a  scanty  main- 
tenance, in  so  dear  a  country,  for  one  of 
her  spirit.  Under  this  consideration,  and, 
indeed,  very  much  for  my  own  satisfaction, 
who  had  few  friends  or  acquaintances  in 
Ireland,  I  prevailed  with  her  and  her 
dear  friend  and  companion,  the  other  lady, 
to  draw  what  money  they  had  into  Ireland, 
a  great  part  of  their  fortune  being  in  an- 
nuities upon  funds.  Money  was  then  ten 
per  cent  in  Ireland,  besides  the  advantage 
of  returning  it,  and  all  necessaries  of  life 
at  half  the  price.  They  complied  with  my 
advice,  and  soon  after  came  over;  but  I, 
happening  to  continue  some  time  longer  in 
England,  they  were  much  discouraged  to 
live  in  Dublin,  where  they  were  wholly 
strangers.  She  was  at  that  time  about 
nineteen  years  old,  and  her  person  was 
soon  distinguished.  But  the  adventure 
looked  so  like  a  frolic,  the  censure  held 
for  some  time,  as  if  there  were  a  secret 
history  in  such  a  removal,  which,  however, 
soon  blew  off  by  her  excellent  conduct.  She 
came  over  with  her  friend  in  the  year  1700, 
and  they  both  lived  together  until  this  day, 


when  death  removed  her  from  us.  For  some 
years  past  she  had  been  visited  with  con- 
tinual ill -health,  and  several  times  within 
these  last  two  years  her  life  was  despaired 
of.  But  for  this  twelvemonth  past  she 
never  had  a  day's  health ;  and,  properly 
speaking,  she  has  been  dying  six  months, 
but  kept  alive,  almost  against  nature,  by  the 
generous  kindness  of  two  physicians  and 
the  care  of  her  friends.  [Thus  far  I  writ 
the  same  night  between  eleven  and  twelve.] 

Never  was  any  of  her  sex  born  with  better 
gifts  of  the  mind,  or  who  more  improved 
them  by  reading  and  conversation.  Yet 
her  memory  was  not  of  the  best,  and  was 
impaired  in  the  latter  years  of  her  life. 
But  I  cannot  call  to  mind  that  I  ever 
once  heard  her  make  a  wrong  judgment  of 
persons,  books,  or  affairs.  Her  advice  was 
always  the  best,  and  with  the  greatest 
freedom,  mixed  with  the  greatest  decency. 
She  had  a  gracefulness  somewhat  more 
than  human  in  every  motion,  word,  and 
action.  Never  was  so  happy  a  conjunction 
of  civility,  freedom,  easiness,  and  sincerity. 
There  seemed  to  be  a  combination  among 
all  that  knew  her  to  treat  her  with  a  dig- 
nity much  beyond  her  rank ;  yet  people  of 
all  sorts  were  never  more  easy  than  in  her 
company.  Mr.  Addison,  when  he  was  in 
Ireland,  being  introduced  to  her,  imme- 
diately found  her  out ;  and,  if  he  had  not 
soon  after  left  the  kingdom,  assured  me 
that  he  would  have  used  all  endeavours  to 
cultivate  her  friendship.  A  rude  or  con- 
ceited coxcomb  passed  his  time  very  ill  upon 
the  least  breach  of  respect ;  for  in  such  a 
case  she  had  no  mercy,  but  was  sure  to  ex- 
pose him  to  the  contempt  of  the  standers-by, 
yet  in  such  a  manner  as  he  was  ashamed 
to  complain  and  durst  not  resent.  All  of 
us  who  had  the  happiness  of  her  friend- 
ship agreed  unanimously  that,  in  an  after- 
noon or  evening's  conversation,  she  never 
failed,  before  we  parted,  of  delivering  the 
best  thing  that  was  said  in  the  company. 
Some  of  us  have  written  down  several  of 
her  sayings,  or  what  the  French  call  bons 
mots,  wherein  she  excelled  beyond  belief. 
She  never  mistook  the  understanding  of 
others;  nor  ever  said  a  severe  word  but 
where  a  much  severer  was  deserved. 

Her  servants  loved  and  almost  adored  her 
at  the  same  time.  She  would,  upon  occa- 
sions, treat  them  with  freedom ;  yet  her 
demeanour  was  so  awful,  that  they  durst  not 
fail  in  the  least  point  of  respect.     She  chid 


86 


JONATHAN   SWIFT. 


them  seldom,  but  it  was  with  severity,  which 
had  an  effect  upon  them  for  a  long  time 
after. 

January  29.  My  head  aches,  and  I  can 
write  no  more. 

January  30.     Tuesday. 

This  is  the  night  of  the  funeral,  which  my 
sickness  will  not  suffer  me  to  attend.  It  is 
now  nine  at  night,  and  I  am  removed  into 
another  apartment  that  I  may  not  see  the 
light  in  the  church,  which  is  just  over 
against  the  window  of  my  bedchamber. 

With  all  the  softness  of  temper  that  be- 
came a  lady,  she  had  the  personal  courage 
of  a  hero.  She  and  her  friend  having  re- 
moved their  lodgings  to  a  new  house,  which 
stood  solitary,  a  parcel  of  rogues,  armed, 
attempted  the  house,  where  there  was  only 
one  boy.  She  was  then  about  fourand- 
twenty;  and  having  been  warned  to  appre- 
hend some  such  attempt,  she  learned  the 
management  of  a  pistol ;  and,  the  other 
women  and  servants  being  half-dead  with 
fear,  she  stole  softly  to  her  dining-room 
window,  put  on  a  black  hood  to  prevent 
being  seen,  primed  the  pistol  fresh,  gently 
lifted  up  the  sash,  and  taking  her  aim  with 
the  utmost  presence  of  mind,  discharged  the 
pistol,  loaden  with  bullets,  into  the  body  of 
one  villain  who  stood  the  fairest  mark.  The 
fellow,  mortally  wounded,  was  carried  off  by 
the  rest,  and  died  the  next  morning,  but  his 
companions  could  not  be  found.  The  Duke 
of  Ormond  had  often  drunk  her  health  to 
me  ujion  that  account,  and  had  always  a 
high  esteem  for  her.  She  was,  indeed,  under 
some  apprehensions  of  going  in  a  boat  after 
some  danger  she  had  narrowly  escaped  by 
water,  but  she  was  reasoned  thoroughly  out 
of  it.  She  was  never  known  to  cry  out, 
or  discover  any  fear,  in  a  coach  or  on  horse- 
back ;  or  any  uneasiness  by  those  sudden 
accidents  with  which  most  of  her  sex,  either 
by  weakness  or  affectation,  appeared  so  much 
disordered. 

She  never  had  the  least  absence  of  mind 
in  conversation,  or  was  given  to  interruption, 
or  appeared  eager  to  put  in  her  word,  by 
waiting  impatiently  until  another  had  done. 
She  spoke  in  a  most  agreeable  voice,  in  the 
plainest  words,  never  hesitating,  except  out 
of  modesty  before  new  faces,  wliere  she  was 
somewhat  reserved ;  nor  among  her  nearest 
friends,  ever  spoke  mucli  at  a  time.  She  was 
but  little  versed  in  the  common  topics  of 
female  chat ;  scandal,  censure,  and  detraction 
never  came  out  of  her  mouth ;  yet  among 


a  few  friends,  in  private  conversation,  she 
made  little  ceremony  in  discovering  her  con- 
tempt of  a  coxcomb,  and  describing  all  his 
follies  to  the  life ;  but  the  follies  of  her  own 
sex  she  was  rather  inclined  to  extenuate  or 
to  pity. 

When  she  was  once  convinced,  by  open 
facts,  of  any  breach  of  truth  or  honour  in 
a  person  of  high  station,  especially  in  the 
Church,  she  could  not  conceal  her  indignation, 
nor  hear  them  named  without  showing  her 
displeasure  in  her  countenance;  particularly 
one  or  two  of  the  latter  sort,  whom  she  had 
known  and  esteemed,  but  detested  above  all 
mankind  when  it  was  manifest  that  they  had 
sacrificed  those  two  precious  virtues  to  their 
ambition  ;  and  would  much  sooner  have  for- 
given them  the  commonest  immoralities  of 
the  laity. 

Her  frequent  fits  of  sickness,  in  most  parts 
of  her  life,  had  prevented  her  from  making 
that  progress  in  reading  which  she  would 
otherwise  have  done.  She  was  well  versed 
in  Greek  and  Roman  story,  and  was  not  un- 
skilled in  that  of  France  and  England.  She 
spoke  French  perfectly,  but  forgot  much  of 
it  by  neglect  and  sickness.  She  had  read 
carefully  all  the  best  books  of  travels,  which 
serve  to  open  and  enlarge  the  mind.  She 
understood  the  Platonic  and  Epicurean  philo- 
sophy, and  judged  very  well  of  the  defects 
of  the  latter.  She  made  very  judicious  ab- 
stracts of  the  best  books  she  had  read.  She 
understood  the  nature  of  government,  and 
could  point  out  all  the  errors  of  Hobbes, 
both  in  that  and  religion.  She  had  a  good 
insight  into  physic,  and  knew  somewhat  of 
anatomy ;  in  both  which  she  was  instructed 
in  her  younger  days  by  an  eminent  physician, 
who  had  her  long  under  his  care,  and  bore 
the  highest  esteem  for  her  person  and  under- 
standing. She  had  a  true  taste  of  wit  and 
good  sense  both  in  poetry  and  prose,  and 
was  a  pei'fect  good  critic  of  style ;  neither 
was  it  easy  to  find  a  more  proper  or  im- 
partial judge,  whose  advice  an  author  might 
better  rely  on,  if  he  intended  to  send  a  thing 
into  the  world,  provided  it  was  on  a  subject 
that  came  within  the  compass  of  her  know- 
ledge. Yet,  perhaps,  she  was  sometimes  too 
severe,  which  is  a  safe  and  pardonable  error. 
She  preserved  her  wit,  judgment,  and  vivacity 
to  the  last,  but  often  used  to  complain  of  her 
memory. 

[I  since  writ  as  I  found  time.] 

But  her  charity  to  the  poor  was  a  duty 


JONATHAN   SWIFT. 


87 


not  to  be  diminished,  and  therefore  became 
a  tax  upon  those  tradesmen  who  furnish  the 
fopperies  of  other  ladies.  She  bought  clothes 
as  seldom  as  possible,  and  those  as  plain  and 
cheap  as  consisted  with  the  situation  she 
was  in ;  and  wore  no  lace  for  many  years. 
Either  her  judgment  or  fortune  was  extra- 
ordinary in  the  choice  of  those  on  whom  she 
bestowed  her  charity,  for  it  went  faither  in 
doing  good  than  double  the  sum  from  any 
other  hand.  And  I  have  heard  her  say  she 
always  met  with  gratitude  from  the  poor; 
which  must  be  owing  to  her  skill  in  dis- 
tinguishing proper  objects,  as  well  as  her 
gracious  manner  in  relieving  them.  But  she 
had  another  quality  that  much  delighted 
her,  although  it  might  be  thought  a  check 
upon  her  bounty  ;  however,  it  was  a  pleasure 
she  could  not  resist :  I  mean  that  of  making 
agreeable  presents ;  wherein  I  never  knew 
her  equal,  although  it  be  an  affair  of  as  deli- 
cate a  nature  as  most  in  the  course  of  life. 
She  used  to  define  a  present,  that  it  was  a 
gift  to  a  fiiend  of  something  he  wanted  or 
was  fond  of,  and  which  could  not  be  easily 
gotten  for  money.  I  am  confident,  during 
my  acquaintance  with  her,  she  has,  in  these 
and  some  other  kinds  of  liberality,  disposed 
of  to  the  value  of  several  hundred  pounds. 
As  to  presents  made  to  herself,  she  received 
them  with  great  unwillingness,  but  especially 
from  those  to  whom  she  had  ever  given  any ; 
being,  on  all  occasions,  the  most  disinterested 
mortal  I  ever  knew  or  heard  of. 

From  her  own  disposition,  at  least  as  much 
as  from  the  frequent  want  of  health,  she 
seldom  made  any  visits;  but  her  own  lodgings, 
from  before  twenty  years  old,  were  frequented 
by  many  persons  of  the  graver  sort,  who  all 
respected  her  highly  upon  her  good  sense, 
good  manners,  and  conversation.  Among 
these  were  the  late  Primate  Lindsay,  Bishop 
Lloyd,  Bishop  Ashe,  Bishop  Brown,  Bishop 
Sterne,  Bishop  Pulleyn,  with  some  others  of 
later  date ;  and  indeed  the  greatest  number 
of  her  acquaintance  was  among  the  clergy. 
Honour,  truth,  liberality,  good-nature,  and 
modesty  were  the  virtues  she  chiefly  pos- 
sessed, and  most  valued  in  her  acquaintance : 
and  where  she  found  them,  [she]  would  be 
ready  to  allow  for  some  defects ;  nor  valued 
them  less  although  they  did  not  shine  in 
learning  or  in  wit ;  but  would  never  give  the 
least  allowance  for  any  failures  in  the  former, 
even  to  those  who  made  the  greatest  figure 
in  either  of  the  two  latter.  She  had  no  use 
of  any  person's  liberality,  yet  her  detestation 


of  covetous  people  made  her  uneasy  if  such 
a  one  was  in  her  company  ;  upon  which  occa- 
sion she  would  say  many  things  very  enter- 
taining and  humorous. 

She  never  interrupted  any  person  who 
spoke;  she  laughed  at  no  mistakes  they 
made,  but  helped  them  out  with  modesty ; 
and  if  a  good  thing  were  spoken,  but  neglected, 
she  would  not  let  it  fall,  but  set  it  in  the 
best  light  to  those  who  were  present.  She 
listened  to  all  that  was  said,  and  had  never 
the  least  distraction  or  absence  of  thought. 

It  was  not  safe,  nor  prudent,  in  her  pres- 
ence, to  offend  in  the  least  word  against 
modesty ;  for  then  she  gave  full  employment 
to  her  wit,  her  contempt,  and  resentment, 
under  which  even  stupidity  and  brutality 
were  forced  to  sink  into  confusion  ;  and  the 
guilty  person,  by  her  future  avoiding  him 
like  a  bear  or  a  satyr,  was  never  in  a  way  to 
transgress  a  second  time. 

It  happened  one  single  coxcomb,  of  the 
pest  kind,  was  in  her  company  among  several 
other  ladies,  and  in  his  flippant  way  began 
to  deliver  some  double  meanings;  the  rest 
flapped  their  fans,  and  used  the  other  com- 
mon expedients  practised  in  such  cases,  of 
appearing  not  to  mind,  or  comprehend,  what 
was  said.  Her  behaviour  was  very  different, 
and  perhaps  may  be  censured.  She  said  thus 
to  the  man :  "  Sir,  all  these  ladies  and  I 
understand  your  meaning  very  well,  having, 
in  spite  of  our  care,  too  often  met  with  those 
of  your  sex  who  wanted  manners  and  good 
sense.  But,  believe  me,  neither  virtuous 
nor  even  vicious  women  love  such  kind  of 
conversation.  However,  I  will  leave  you,  and 
report  your  behaviour;  and  whatever  visit 
I  make,  I  shall  first  enquire  at  the  door 
whether  you  are  in  the  house,  that  I  may 
be  sure  to  avoid  you."  I  know  not  whether 
a  majority  of  ladies  would  approve  of  such 
a  proceeding ;  but  I  believe  the  practice  of  it 
would  soon  put  an  end  to  that  corrupt  con- 
versation, the  worst  effect  of  dulness,  ignor- 
ance, impudence,  and  vulgarity,  and  the 
highest  affront  to  the  modesty  and  under- 
standing of  the  female  sex. 

By  returning  very  few  visits,  she  had  not 
much  company  of  her  own  sex,  except  those 
whom  she  most  loved  for  their  easiness,  or 
esteemed  for  their  good  sense:  and  those 
not  insisting  on  ceremony,  came  often  to  her. 
But  she  rather  chose  men  for  her  companions, 
the  usual  topic  of  ladies'  discourse  being  such 
as  she  had  little  knowledge  of,  and  less  relish. 


88 


JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


THOUGHTS   ON  VARIOUS   SUBJECTS.' 

We  have  just  enough  religion  to  make  us 
hate,  but  not  enough  to  make  us  love  one 
another. 

Reflect  on  things  past,  as  wars,  negotiations, 
factious,  &c.  We  enter  so  little  into  those 
interests,  that  we  wonder  how  men  could  pos- 
sibly be  so  busy  and  concerned  for  things  so 
transitory:  look  on  the  present  times,  we  tind 
the  same  humour,  yet  wonder  not  at  all. 

Positiveness  is  a  good  quality  for  preachers 
and  orators,  because  he  that  would  obtrude  his 
thoughts  and  reasons  upon  a  multitude,  will 
convince  others  the  more,  as  he  appears  con- 
vinced himself. 

How  is  it  possible  to  expect  that  mankind 
will  take  advice,  when  they  will  not  so  much 
as  take  warning? 

No  preacher  is  listened  to  but  Time,  which 
gives  us  the  same  train  and  turn  of  thought 
that  elder  people  have  tried  in  vain  to  put  into 
our  heads  before. 

When  we  desire  or  solicit  anything  our 
minds  nm  wholly  on  the  good  side  or  circum- 
stances of  it ;  when  it  is  obtained  our  minds 
run  wholly  on  the  bad  ones. 

All  fits  of  plea.sure  are  balanced  by  an  equal 
degi-ee  of  pain  or  languor;  it  is  like  spending 
this  year  part  of  the  next  year's  revenue. 

The  latter  part  of  a  wise  man's  life  is  taken 
up  in  curing  the  follies,  prejudices,  and  false 
opinions  he  had  contracted  in  the  former. 

Would  a  writer  know  how  to  behave  himself 
with  relation  to  j^osterity,  let  him  consider  in 
old  books  what  he  finds  that  he  is  glad  to 
know,  and  what  omissions  he  most  laments. 

Whatever  the  poets  pretend,  'tis  plain  they 
give  immortality  to  none  but  themselves.  'Tis 
Homer  and  Virgil  we  reverence  and  admire, 
not  Achilles  or  ^neas.  With  historians  it  is 
quite  the  contrary;  our  thoughts  are  taken  up 
with  the  actions,  persons,  and  events  we  read, 
and  we  little  regard  the  authors. 

When  a  true  genius  appears  in  the  world 
you  may  know  him  by  this  sign,  that  the 
dunces  are  all  in  confederacy  against  him. 

Men  who  possess  all  the  advantages  of  life 
are  in  a  state  where  there  are  many  accidents 
to  disorder  and  discompose,  but  few  to  please 
them. 

'Tis  unwise  to  punish  cowards  with  igno- 
miny;    for  if   they  had   regarded   that  tliey 

'  These  thoughts  are  perhaps  more  characteristic  of  the 
author  than  anything  else  he  lias  left  behind  him. 


would  not  have  been  cowards :  death  is  their 
proper  punishment,  because  they  fear  it  most. 

I  am  apt  to  think,  that  in  the  day  of  judg- 
ment there  will  be  small  allowance  given  to 
the  wise  for  their  want  of  morals,  nor  to  the 
ignorant  for  their  want  of  faith,  because  both 
are  without  excuse.  This  renders  the  advan- 
tages equal  of  ignorance  and  knowledge.  But 
some  scruples  in  the  wise,  and  some  vices  in 
the  ignorant,  will  perhaps  be  forgiven  upon  the 
strength  of  temptation  to  each. 

Tis  pleasant  to  observe  how  free  the  present 
age  is  in  laying  taxes  on  the  next :  future  ages 
shall  talk  of  this;  this  shall  be  famous  to  all 
posterity;  whereas  their  time  and  thoughts  will 
be  taken  up  about  present  things,  as  ours  are 
now. 

The  chameleon,  who  is  said  to  feed  upon 
nothing  but  air,  hath  of  all  animals  the  nim- 
blest tongue. 

When  a  man  is  made  a  spu-itual  peer  he 
loses  his  surname;  when  a  temporal,  his  Chris- 
tian name. 

It  is  in  disputes  as  in  armies,  where  the 
weaker  sides  set  up  false  lights,  and  make  a 
great  noise,  to  make  the  enemy  believe  them 
more  niunerous  and  strong  than  they  really 
are. 

Some  men,  under  the  notions  of  weeding  out 
prejudices,  eradicate  virtue,  honesty,  and  reli- 
gion. 

There  are  but  three  ways  for  a  man  to  re- 
venge himself  of  the  censure  of  the  world  :  to 
despise  it,  to  return  the  like,  or  to  endeavour 
to  live  so  as  to  avoid  it.  The  first  of  these  is 
usually  pretended,  the  last  is  almost  impos- 
sible, the  universal  practice  is  for  the  second. 

I  have  known  some  men  possessed  of  good 
qualities  wliich  were  very  serviceable  to  others, 
but  useless  to  themselves ;  like  a  sun-dial  on 
the  front  of  a  house,  to  inform  the  neighbours 
and  passengers,  but  not  the  owner  within. 

If  a  man  would  register  all  his  opinions  upon 
love,  politics,  religion,  learning,  &c.,  begiiming 
from  his  youth  and  so  go  on  to  old  age,  what 
a  bundle  of  inconsistencies  and  contradictions 
would  appear  at  last ! 

What  they  do  in  heaven  we  are  ignorant 
of;  what  they  do  not  we  are  told  expressly, 
that  they  neither  marry  nor  are  given  in  mar- 
riage. 

It  is  a  miserable  thing  to  live  in  suspense ; 
it  is  the  life  of  a  spider. 

The  stoical  scheme  of  supplying  our  wants 
by  lopping  off  our  desires  is  like  cutting  off 
our  feet  when  we  want  shoes. 

Physicians  ought  not  to  give  their  judgment 


JONATHAN   SWIFT. 


89 


of  religion,  for  the  same  reason  that  butchers 
are  not  admitted  to  be  jurors  ui)OU  life  and 
death. 

The  reason  why  so  few  marriages  are  happy, 
is,  because  young  ladies  spend  their  time  in 
making  nets,  not  in  making  cages. 

If  a  man  will  observe  as  he  walks  the  streets, 
I  believe  he  will  find  the  merriest  countenances 
in  mourning-coaches. 

Nothing  more  unqualiiies  a  man  to  act  with 
prudence,  than  a  misfortune  that  is  attended 
with  shame  and  guilt. 

The  power  of  fortune  is  confessed  only  by 
the  miserable ;  for  the  happy  impute  all  their 
success  to  prudence  or  merit. 

Ambition  often  puts  men  upon  doing  the 
meanest  offices;  so  climbing  is  performed  in 
the  same  posture  with  creeping. 

Ill  company  is  like  a  dog,  who  dirts  those 
most  whom  he  loves  best. 

Censure  is  the  tax  a  man  pays  to  the  public 
for  being  eminent. 

Although  men  are  accused  for  not  knowing 
their  own  weakness,  yet  perhaps  as  few  know 
tlieir  own  strength.  It  is  in  men  as  in  soils, 
where  sometimes  there  is  a  vein  of  gold  which 
the  owner  knows  not  of. 

Invention  is  the  talent  of  youth  and  judg- 
ment of  age;  so  that  our  judgment  grows 
harder  to  please  when  we  have  fewer  things 
to  otfer  it :  this  goes  through  the  whole  com- 
merce of  life.  When  we  are  old  our  friends 
find  it  difficult  to  please  us,  and  are  less  con- 
cerned whether  we  be  pleased  or  no. 

No  wise  man  ever  wished  to  be  younger. 

An  idle  reason  lessens  the  weight  of  the 
good  ones  you  gave  before. 

The  motives  of  the  best  actions  will  not  bear 
too  strict  an  inquiry.  It  is  allowed  that  the 
cause  of  most  actions,  good  or  bad,  may  be 
resolved  into  the  love  of  ourselves ;  but  the 
self-love  of  some  men  inclines  them  to  please 
others ;  and  the  self-love  of  others  is  wholly 
employed  in  pleasing  themselves.  This  makes 
the  great  distinction  between  vii-tue  and  vice. 
Religion  is  the  best  motive  of  all  actions,  yet 
religion  is  allowed  to  be  the  highest  instance 
of  self-love. 

Old  men  view  best  at  a  distance  with  the 
eyes  of  their  understanding  as  weU  as  with 
those  of  nature. 

Some  people  take  more  care  to  hide  their 
wisdom  than  their  folly. 

Complaint  is  the  largest  tribute  Heaven  re- 
ceives, and  the  sincerest  part  of  our  devotion. 

The  common  fluency  of  speech  in  many  men 
and   most   women  is  owing   to  a  scarcity  of 


matter  and  a  scarcity  of  words;  for  whoever  is 
a  master  of  language,  and  hath  a  mind  full  of 
ideas,  will  be  apt  in  speaking  to  hesitate  upon 
the  choice  of  both;  whei-eas  common  speakers 
have  only  one  set  of  ideas  and  one  set  of  words 
to  clothe  them  in ;  and  these  are  always  ready 
at  the  mouth :  so  people  come  faster  out  of  a 
church  when  it  is  almost  emjjty,  than  when  a 
crowd  is  at  the  door. 

Few  are  qualified  to  shine  in  company,  but 
it  is  in  most  men's  power  to  be  agreeahh.  The 
reason  therefore  why  conversation  runs  so  low 
at  present,  is  not  the  defect  of  understanding, 
but  pride,  vanity,  ill  nature,  aifectation,  sin- 
gularity, positiveness,  or  some  other  vice,  the 
effect  of  a  wrong  education. 

To  be  vain  is  rather  a  mark  of  humility  than 
pride.  Vain  men  delight  in  telling  what  hon- 
ours have  been  done  them,  what  great  company 
they  have  kept,  and  the  like,  by  which  they 
j^lainly  confess  that  these  honours  were  more 
than  their  due,  and  such  as  their  fi'iends  would 
not  believe  if  they  had  not  been  told :  whereas 
a  man  truly  proud  thinks  the  greatest  honours 
below  his  merit,  and  consequently  scorns  to 
boast.  I  therefore  deliver  it  as  a  maxim,  that 
whoever  desires  the  character  of  a  proud  man, 
ought  to  conceal  his  vanity. 

Law  in  a  free  country  is,  or  ought  to  be,  the 
determination  of  the  majority  of  those  who 
have  property  in  land. 

One  argument  used  to  the  disadvantage  of 
providence,  I  take  to  be  a  very  strong  one  in 
its  defence.  It  is  objected  that  storms  and 
tempests,  unfruitful  seasons,  serpents,  spiders, 
flies,  and  other  noxious  or  troublesome  animals, 
with  many  more  instances  of  the  like  kind, 
discover  an  imperfection  in  nature,  because 
human  life  would  be  much  easier  without 
them:  but  the  design  of  providence  may  clearly 
be  perceived  in  this  proceeding.  The  motions 
of  the  sun  and  moon ;  in  short,  the  whole  sys- 
tem of  the  universe,  as  far  as  jihilosophers  have 
been  able  to  discover  and  observe,  are  in  the 
utmost  degree  of  regularity  and  perfection ; 
but  wherever  God  hath  left  to  man  the  power 
of  interposing  a  remedy  by  thought  or  labour, 
there  he  hath  placed  things  in  a  state  of  im- 
perfection, on  purj)ose  to  stir  up  human  in- 
dustry, without  which  life  would  stagnate,  or 
indeed  rather  could  not  subsist  at  all :  curis 
acuunt  mortalia  corda. 

Praise  is  the  daughter  of  present  power. 

How  inconsistent  is  man  with  himself ! 

I  have  known  several  persons  of  gi-eat  fame 
for  wisdom  in  public  aftairs  and  counsels,  gov- 
erned by  foolish  servants. 


90 


JONATHAN   SWIFT. 


I  have  known  great  ministers,  distinguished 
foi-  wit  and  learning,  who  preferred  none  but 
dunces. 

I  have  known  men  of  great  valour  cowards 
to  their  wives. 

I  have  known  men  of  the  greatest  cunning 
perpetually  cheated. 

I  knew  three  great  ministers,  who  could 
exactly  compute  and  settle  the  accounts  of 
a  kingdom,  but  were  wholly  ignorant  of  their 
own  economy. 

The  preaching  of  divines  helps  to  preserve 
well-inclined  men  in  the  course  of  virtue,  but 
seldom  or  never  reclaims  the  vicious. 

Princes  usually  make  wiser  choices  than  the 
servants  whom  they  trust  for  the  disposal  of 
places :  I  have  known  a  prince  more  than  once 
choose  an  able  minister ;  but  I  never  observed 
that  minister  to  use  his  credit  in  the  disposal 
of  an  employment  to  a  person  whom  he  thought 
the  fittest  for  it.  One  of  the  greatest  in  this 
age^  owned  and  excused  the  matter  from  the 
violence  of  parties,  and  the  unreasonableness 
of  friends. 

Small  causes  are  sufficient  to  make  a  man 
uneasy  when  great  ones  are  not  in  the  way:  for 
want  of  a  block  he  will  stumble  at  a  straw. 

Dignity,  high  station,  or  great  riches  are 
in  some  soi't  necessary  to  old  men,  in  order  to 
keep  the  younger  at  a  distance,  who  are  other- 
wise too  apt  to  insult  them  upon  the  score  of 
their  age. 

Every  man  desires  to  live  long ;  but  no  man 
would  be  old. 

Love  of  flattery  in  most  men  proceeds  from 
the  mean  opinion  they  have  of  themselves;  in 
women  from  the  contrary. 

If  books  and  laws  continue  to  increase  as 
they  have  done  for  fifty  years  past,  I  am  in 
some  concern  for  future  ages,  how  any  man 
will  be  learned,  or  any  man  a  lawyer. 

Kings  are  commonly  said  to  have  long 
hands;  I  wish  they  had  as  long  ears. 

Silenus,  the  foster-father  of  Bacchus,  is 
always  carried  by  an  ass,  and  has  horns  on  his 
head.  The  moral  is,  that  drunkards  are  led 
by  fools,  and  have  a  great  chance  to  be  cuck- 
olds. 

Venus,  a  beautiful,  good-natured  lady,  was 
tlie  goddess  of  love;  Juno,  a  terrible  shrew, 
tlie  goddess  of  marriage :  and  they  were  always 
mortal  enemies. 

Those  who  are  against  religion  must  needs 
be  fools ;  and  therefore  we  read  that  of  all 
animals,  God  refused  the  first-born  of  an  ass. 

1  Harley  is  referred  to  here. 


A  very  little  wit  is  valued  in  a  woman,  aa 
we  are  pleased  with  a  few  words  spoken  plain 
by  a  parrot. 

Apollo  was  held  the  god  of  physic  and  sender 
of  diseases.  Both  were  originally  the  same 
trade,  and  still  continue. 

There  is  a  stoiy  in  Pausanias  of  a  plot  for 
betraying  of  a  city,  discovered  by  the  braying 
of  an  ass :  the  cackling  of  geese  saved  the 
Capitol,  and  Catiline's  couspuacy  was  dis- 
covered by  a  whore.  These  are  the  only  three 
animals,  as  far  as  I  remember,  famous  in  his- 
tory foi'  evidences  and  informers. 

Most  sorts  of  diversion  in  men,  children,  and 
other  animals  is  an  imitation  of  fighting. 

Augustus  meeting  an  as^s  with  a  lucky  name 
foretold  himself  good  fortune.  I  meet  many 
asses,  but  none  of  them  have  lucky  names. 

If  a  man  makes  me  keep  my  distance,  the 
comfort  is,  he  keeps  his  at  the  same  time. 

Who  can  deny  that  all  men  are  violent  lovers 
of  truth  when  we  see  them  so  positiv^e  in  their 
errors,  which  they  will  maintain  out  of  their 
zeal  to  tiuth,  although  they  contradict  them- 
selves every  day  of  their  lives? 

That  was  excellently  observed,  say  I,  when  I 
read  a  passage  in  an  author  where  his  opinion 
agrees  with  mine.  When  we  diifer,  there  I 
pronounce  him  to  be  mistaken. 

Very  few  men,  properly  speaking,  live  at 
present,  but  are  providing  to  live  another  time. 

As  univereal  a  practice  as  lying  is,  and  as 
easy  one  as  it  seems,  I  do  not  remember  to 
have  heai'd  three  good  lies  in  all  my  conversa- 
tion, even  from  those  who  were  most  celebrated 
in  that  faculty. 


PROMETHEUS. 

ON  WOOD   THE   PATENTEE'S   IRISH   HALF-PENCE. 
I. 

When  first  the  squire  and  tinker  Wood, 
Gravely  consulting  Ireland's  good, 
Toijether  mingled  in  a  mass 
Smith's  du.st,  and  copper,  lead,  and  brass; 
The  mixture  thus  by  chimick  art 
United  close  in  every  part, 
In  fillets  roH'd,  or  cut  in  pieces, 
Appcar'd  like  one  continu'd  species; 
And  by  the  forming  engine  struck, 
On  all  the  same  impression  stuck. 


JONATHAN   SWIFT. 


91 


So  to  confound  this  hated  coin, 
All  parties  and  relij^ions  join; 
AVhij^H,  Tories,  Trimmers,  Hanoverians, 
Quakers,  Conformists,  Presbj'terians, 
Scotch,  Irish,  Engiisli,  French  unite, 
With  equal  int'rest,  equal  spite; 
Together  mingled  in  a  lump. 
Do  all  in  one  opinion  jump; 
And  ev'ry  one  begins  to  find 
The  same  impression  on  his  mind. 

A  strange  event !  whom  gold  incites 
To  blood  and  quarrels,  brass  unites: 
So  goldsmiths  say,  the  coarsest  stuff 
Will  serve  for  sodder  well  enough: 
So,  by  the  kettle's  loud  alarm 
The  bees  are  gather'd  to  a  swarm: 
So,  by  the  brazen  trumpet's  bluster 
Troops  of  all  tongues  and  nations  muster: 
And  so  the  harp  of  Ireland  brings 
Whole  crowds  about  its  brazen  strings. 

II. 

There  is  a  chain  let  down  from  Jove, 
But  fasten'd  to  his  throne  above; 
So  strong,  that  from  the  lower  end, 
They  say,  all  human  things  depend: 
This  chain,  as  ancient  poets  hold. 
When  Jove  was  young,  was  made  of  gold, 
Prometheus  once  this  chain  purloin'd, 
Dissolv'd,  and  into  money  coin'd; 
Then  whips  me  on  a  chain  of  brass 
(Venus  was  brib'd  to  let  it  pass). 

Now  while  this  brazen  chain  prevail'd, 
Jove  saw  that  all  devotion  fail'd; 
No  temple  to  his  godship  rais'd. 
No  sacrifice  on  altars  blaz'd; 
In  short,  such  dire  confusion  follow'd. 
Earth  must  have  been  in  chaos  swallow'd: 
Jove  stood  amaz'd,  but  looking  round. 
With  much  ado  the  cheat  he  found; 
'Twas  plain  he  could  no  longer  hold 
The  world  in  any  chain  but  gold; 
And  to  the  god  of  wealth,  his  lirother, 
Sent  Mercury  to  get  another. 

III. 

Prometheus  on  a  rock  is  laid, 
Ty'd  with  the  chain  himself  had  made. 
On  icy  Caucasius  to  shiver. 
While  vultures  eat  his  growing  liver. 

Ye  pow'rs  of  Grub  Street,  make  me  able 
Discreetly  to  apply  this  fable. 
Say,  who  is  to  be  understood 
By  that  old  thief  Prometheus? — Wood. 
For  Jove,  it  is  not  hard  to  guess  him, 
I  mean  his  majesty,  God  bleiis  him! 
This  thief  and  blacksmith  was  so  bold. 
He  strove  to  steal  tha^  chain  of  gold 


(Which  links  the  subject  to  the  king), 
And  change  it  for  a  brazen  string. 
But  sure,  if  nothing  else  must  pass 
Between  the  king  and  us  but  bra.ss, 
Altho'  the  chain  will  never  crack, 
Yet  our  devotion  may  grow  slack. 

But  Jove  will  soon  convert,  I  hope, 
This  brazen  chain  into  a  rope; 
With  which  Prometheus  shall  be  ty'd, 
And  high  in  air  for  ever  ride; 
Where,  if  we  find  his  liver  growis, 
For  want  of  vultures  we  have  crows. 


WISHES   AND   REALITIES. 

IMITATED    KROM    HORACE. 

I  often  wished  that  I  had  clear 
For  life,  six  hundred  pounds  a  year, 
A  handsome  house  to  lodge  a  friend, 
A  river  at  my  garden's  end, 
A  terrace  walk,  and  half  a  rood 
Of  land  set  out  to  plant  a  wood. 

Well,  now  I  have  all  this  and  more, 
I  ask  not  to  increase  my  store. 
But  should  be  perfectly  content 
Could  I  but  live  on  this  side  Trent; 
Nor  cross  the  Channel  twice  a  year. 
To  spend  six  months  with  statesmen  here. 

I  must  by  all  means  come  to  town, 
'Tis  for  the  service  of  the  crown. 
"Lewis,  the  Dean  will  be  of  use. 
Send  for  him  up,  take  no  excuse." 
The  toil,  the  danger  of  the  seas; 
Great  ministers  ne'er  think  of  these; 
Or  let  it  cost  five  hundred  pound. 
No  matter  where  the  money's  found; 
It  is  but  so  much  more  in  debt, 
And  that  they  ne'er  consider'd  yet. 

' '  Good  Mr.  Dean,  go  change  your  gown, 

Let  my  lord  know  you're  come  to  town. " 

I  hurry  me  in  haste  away, 

Not  thinking  it  is  levee-day; 

And  find  his  honour  in  a  pound, 

Hemm'd  by  a  triple  circle  round. 

Chequer'd  with  ribbons  blue  and  green. 

How  should  I  thrust  myself  between? 

Some  wag  observes  me  thus  perplext. 

And  smiling,  whispers  to  the  next. 
' '  I  thought  the  Dean  had  been  too  proud 

To  jostle  here  among  a  crowd." 

Another  in  a  surly  fit 

Tells  me  I  have  more  zeal  than  wit. 
"So  eager  to  express  your  love, 

You  ne'er  consider  whom  you  shove, 


92 


JONATHAN   SWIFT. 


But  rudely  press  before  a  duke. " 
I  own  I'm  pleas'd  with  this  rebuke, 
And  take  it  kindly  meant  to  show 
What  I  desire  the  world  should  know. 

I  get  a  whisper,  and  withdraw. 
When  twenty  fools  I  never  saw 
Come  with  petitions  fairly  penn'd, 
Desiring  I  would  stand  their  friend. 

This,  humbly  offers  me  his  case — 
That,  begs  my  int'rest  for  a  place — 
A  hundred  other  men's  affairs 
Like  bees  are  humming  in  my  ears. 

"To-morrow  my  appeal  comes  on, 
Without  your  help  the  cause  is  gone  " — 
The  duke  expects  my  lord  and  you, 
About  some  great  affair,  at  two — 

"  Put  my  Lord  Bolingbroke  in  mind 
To  get  my  warrant  quicklj'  sign'd: 
Consider  'tis  my  first  request  " — 
Be  satisfied,  I'll  do  my  best: — 
Then  presently  he  falls  to  tease, 

"You  may  for  certain,  if  you  please; 
I  doubt  not,  if  his  lordship  knew" — 
And  Mr.  Dean,  one  word  from  you — 

'Tis  (let  me  see)  three  years  and  more 
(October  next  it  will  be  four) 
Since  Harley  bid  me  first  attend. 
And  chose  me  for  an  humble  friend; 
W^ould  take  me  in  his  coach  to  chat, 
And  question  me  of  this  and  that; 
As, ' '  What's  a-clock  ? "  and ' '  How's  the  wind  ? ' 
"Whose  chariot's  that  we  left  behind?" 
Or  gravely  try  to  read  the  lines 
Writ  underneath  the  country  signs; 
Or,  ' '  Have  you  nothing  new  to-day 
From  Pope,  from  Parnell,  or  from  Gay?" 
Such  tattle  often  entertains 
My  lord  and  me  as  far  as  Stains, 
As  once  a  week  we  travel  down 
To  Windsor,  and  again  to  town, 
Where  all  that  passes  inter  nos 
Might  be  proclaim'd  at  Charing  Cross. 

Yet  some  I  know  with  envy  swell. 
Because  they  see  me  us'd  so  well: 

"  How  think  you  of  our  friend  the  Dean? 
I  wonder  what  some  people  mean; 
My  lord  and  he  are  grown  so  great. 
Always  together,  tete-a-tete: 
What,  they  admire  him  for  his  jokes — 
See  but  the  fortune  of  some  folks  !" 
There  flies  about  a  strange  report 
Of  some  express  arriv'd  at  court, 
I'm  stopp'd  by  all  the  fools  I  meet. 
And  catechised  in  cv'ry  street. 

"You,  Mr.  Dean,  frequent  the  great; 
Inform  us,  will  the  cmp'ror  treat? 
Or  do  tlie  prints  and  papers  lie?" 


Faith,  sir,  you  know  as  much  as  I. 
"Ah  doctor,  how  you  love  to  jest! 

'Tis  now  no  secret " 1  protest 

'Tis  one  to  me. "  Then  tell  us,  pray, 

When  are  the  troops  to  have  their  pay?" 
And,  tho'  I  solemnly  declare 
I  know  no  more  than  my  Lord-mayor, 
They  stand  amaz'd,  and  think  me  grown 
The  closest  mortal  ever  known. 

Thus  in  a  sea  of  folly  toss'd, 
My  choicest  hours  of  life  are  lost; 
Yet  always  wishing  to  retreat. 
Oh,  could  I  see  my  country  seat ! 
There,  leaning  near  a  gentle  brook, 
Sleep,  or  peruse  some  ancient  book; 
And  there  in  sweet  oblivion  drown 
Those  cares  that  haunt  the  court  and  town. 


THE   HAPPY  LIFE   OF   A   COUNTRY 
PARSON. 

IN  IMITATION  OF  MARTIAL. 

Parson,  these  things  in  thy  possessing 
Are  better  than  the  bishop's  blessing. 
A  wife  that  makes  conserves;  a  steed 
That  carries  double  where  there's  need: 
October  store,  and  best  A'irginia, 
Tithe  pig,  and  mortuary  guinea: 
Gazettes  sent  gratis  down,  and  frank'd, 
For  which  thy  patron's  weekly  thank'd: 
A  large  concordance  (bound  long  since). 
Sermons  to  Charles  the  First,  when  prince; 
A  chronicle  of  ancient  standing ; 
A  Chrysostom  to  smooth  thy  baud  in: 
The  polyglotr— three  parts — my  text, 
Howbeit — likewise — now  to  my  next, 
Lo  here  the  Septuagint — and  Paul, 
To  sum  the  whole — the  close  of  all. 

He  that  has  these  may  pass  his  life, 
Drink  with  the  squire,  and  kiss  his  wife: 
On  Sundays  preach,  and  eat  his  fill; 
And  fast  on  Fridays,  if  he  will; 
Toast  church  and  queen,  explain  the  news 
Talk  with  church- ward  ens  about  pews, 
Pray  heartily  for  some  new  gift. 
And  shake  his  head  at  Doctor  Swift. 


STELLA'S   BIRTHDAY,   1724. 

As  when  a  beauteous  nymph  decays 
We  say,  she's  past  her  dancing  daj's; 
So,  poets  lose  their  feet  by  time. 
And  can  no  longer  dance  in  rhyme. 
Your  annual  bard  had  rather  chose 


JONATHAN    SWIFT. 


93 


To  celebrate  your  birth  in  prose; 

Yet  merry  folks  who  want  by  chance 

A  pair  to  make  a  country  dance, 

Call  the  old  housekeeper,  and  get  her 

To  fill  a  place,  for  want  of  better; 

While  Sheridan  is  off  the  hookrt, 

And  friend  Delany  at  his  Ijooks, 

That  Stella  may  avoid  disgrace 

Once  more  the  Dean  supplies  their  place. 

Beauty  and  wit,  too  sad  a  truth. 
Have  always  been  confin'd  to  youth; 
The  god  of  wit,  and  beauty's  queen, 
He  twenty-one,  and  she  fifteen; 
No  poet  every  sweetly  sung 
Unless  he  were,  like  Phoebus,  young; 
Nor  ever  nymph  inspir'd  to  rhyme. 
Unless,  like  A'enus,  in  her  prime. 
At  fifty-si.x,  if  this  be  true. 
Am  I  a  poet  fit  for  you? 
Or  at  the  age  of  forty-three. 
Are  you  a  subject  fit  for  me? 
Adieu  bright  wit,  and  radiant  eyes ; 
You  must  be  grave,  and  I  be  wise. 
Our  fate  in  vain  we  would  oppose, 
But  I'll  be  still  your  friend  in  prose; 
Esteem  and  friendship  to  express, 
Will  not  require  poetic  dress; 
And  if  the  Muse  deny  her  aid 
To  have  them  sung,  they  may  be  said. 

But,  Stella,  say,  what  evil  tongue 
Reports  you  are  no  longer  young? 
That  Time  sits  with  his  .scythe  to  mow 
Where  erst  sat  Cupid  with  his  bow; 
That  half  your  locks  are  turn'd  to  gray; 
I'll  ne'er  believe  a  word  they  say. 
'Tis  true,  but  let  it  not  be  known, 
My  eyes  are  somewhat  dimmish  grown; 
For  nature,  always  in  the  right. 
To  your  decays  adapts  my  sight, 
And  wrinkles  undistinguished  pass. 
For  I'm  asham'd  to  use  a  glass ; 
And  till  I  see  them  with  these  eyes. 
Whoever  says  you  have  them,  lies. 

No  length  of  time  can  make  you  quit 
Honour  and  virtue,  sense  and  wit. 
Thus  you  may  still  be  young  to  me 
While  I  can  better  hear  than  see: 
Oh  ne'er  may  fortune  show  her  spite. 
To  make  me  deaf,  and  mend  my  sight. 


IN   SICKNESS.' 


'Tis  true,  then  why  should  I  repine, 
To  see  my  life  so  fast  decline? 
But,  why  obscurely  here  alone, 

1  Written  soon  after  the  author's  coming  to  live  in  Ire- 
land, upon  the  queen's  death,  October,  171-1. 


Where  I  am  neither  lov'd  nor  known? 

My  state  of  health  none  care  to  learn; 

My  life  is  here  no  soul's  concern  : 

And  those  with  whom  I  now  converse. 

Without  a  tear  will  tend  my  hearse. 

Remov'd  from  kind  Arbuthnot's  aid, 

Who  knows  his  art,  but  not  his  trade, 

Preferring  his  regard  for  me 

Before  his  credit,  or  his  fee. 

Some  formal  visits,  looks,  and  M'ords, 

What  mere  humanity  aflfords, 

I  meet  perhaps  from  three  or  four. 

From  whom  I  once  expected  more ; 

Which  those  who  tend  the  sick  for  pay, 

Can  act  as  decently  as  they  : 

But  no  obliging  tender  friend 

To  help  at  my  approaching  end. 

My  life  is  now  a  burden  grown 

To  others,  ere  it  be  my  own. 

Ye  formal  weepers  for  the  sick. 
In  your  last  offices  be  quick  : 
And  .spare  my  absent  friends  the  grief 
To  hear,  yet  give  me  no  relief; 
Expir'd  to-day,  intomb'd  to-morrow. 
When  known,  will  save  a  double  sorrow. 


THE   FURNITUHE   OF   A   WOMAN'S 
MIND. 

A  set  of  phrases  learned  by  rote, 
A  passion  for  a  scarlet  coat; 
When  at  a  play  to  laugh  or  cry. 
Yet  cannot  tell  the  reason  why; 
Never  to  hold  her  tongue  a  minute, 
While  all  she  prates  has  nothing  in  it; 
Whole  hours  can  with  a  coxcomb  sit, 
And  take  his  nonsense  all  for  wit; 
His  learning  mounts  to  read  a  song. 
But  half  the  words  pronouncing  wrong; 
Hath  every  repartee  in  store 
She  spoke  ten  thousand  times  before; 
Can  ready  compliments  supply 
On  all  occasions  cut  and  dry; 
Such  hatred  to  a  parson's  gown, 
The  sight  will  put  her  in  a  swoon; 
For  conversation  well  endued. 
She  calls  it  witty  to  be  rude; 
And  placing  raillery  in  railing, 
Will  tell  aloud  your  greatest  failing; 
Nor  makes  a  scruple  to  expose 
Your  bandy  leg  or  crooked  nose; 
Can  at  her  morning  tea  run  o'er 
The  scandal  of  the  day  before; 
Improving  hourly  in  her  skill 
To  cheat  and  wrangle  at  quadrille. 

In  choosing  lace  a  critic  nice, 
Knows  to  a  groat  the  lowest  price; 


04 


SAMUEL  BOYSE. 


Can  in  her  female  clubs  dispute 
What  lining  best  the  silk  will  suit; 
What  colours  each  complexion  match, 
And  where  with  art  to  place  a  patch. 

If  chance  a  mouse  creeps  in  her  sight, 
Can  finely  counterfeit  a  fright; 
So  sweetlj'  screams  if  it  comes  near  her, 
She  ravishes  all  hearts  to  hear  her; 
Can  dext'rously  her  husband  tease, 
By  taking  fits  whene'er  she  please; 
By  frequent  practice  learns  the  trick 
At  proper  seasons  to  be  sick; 
Thinks  nothing  gives  one  airs  so  pretty, 
At  once  creating  love  and  pity; 
If  Molly  happens  to  be  careless, 
And  but  neglects  to  warm  her  hair-lace, 
She  gets  a  cold  as  sure  as  death. 
And  vows  she  scarce  can  fetch  her  breath; 
Admires  how  modest  women  can 
Be  so  robustious,  like  a  man. 

In  party  furious  to  her  power; 
A  bitter  Whig,  or  Tory  sour; 
Her  arguments  directly  tend 
Against  the  side  she  would  defend; 
Will  prove  herself  a  Tory  plain. 
From  principles  the  Whigs  maintain; 
And  to  defend  the  Whiggish  cause. 
Her  topics  from  the  Tories  draws. 

O  yes!  if  any  man  can  find 
More  virtues  in  a  woman's  mind. 
Let  them  be  sent  to  Mrs.  Harding, 
She'll  pay  the  charges  to  a  farthing: 
Take  notice,  she  has  my  commission 
To  add  them  in  the  next  edition; 
They  may  outsell  a  better  thing: 
So,  holla,  boys !  God  save  the  king ! 


LAWYERS. 

I  own  the  curses  of  mankind 

Sit  light  upon  a  lawyer's  mind; 

The  clamours  of  ten  thousand  tongues 


Break  not  his  rest,  nor  hurt  his  lungs. 
I  own  his  conscience  always  free. 
Provided  he  has  got  his  fee: 
Secure  of  constant  peace  within. 
He  knows  no  guilt  who  knows  no  sin. 
Yet  well  they  merit  to  be  pitied, 
By  clients  always  overwitted  : 
And  though  the  gospel  seems  to  say 
What  heavy  burdens  lawyers  lay 
Upon  the  shoulders  of  their  neighbour, 
Nor  lend  a  finger  to  the  labour, 
Always  for  saving  their  own  bacon, 
No  doubt  the  text  is  here  mistaken: 
The  copy's  false,  and  sense  is  rackt; 
To  prove  it  I  appeal  to  fact. 
And  thus  by  demonstration  show 
What  burdens  lawyers  undergo. 
With  early  clients  at  his  door. 
Though  he  was  drunk  the  night  before, 
And  crop-sick  with  unclubb'd-for  wine, 
The  wretch  must  be  at  court  by  nine; 
Half  sunk  beneath  his  briefs  and  bag, 
As  ridden  by  a  midnight  hag; 
Then  from  the  bar  harangues  the  bench, 
In  English  vile,  and  viler  French, 
And  Latin,  vilest  of  the  three, 
And  all  for  poor  ten  moidores'  fee. 
Of  paper  how  is  he  profuse! 
With  periods  long,  in  terms  abstruse. 
What  pains  he  takes  to  be  prolix  ! 
A  thousand  lines  to  stand  for  six; 
Of  common  sense  without  a  word  in, 
And  is  not  this  a  grievous  burden ! 
The  lawyer  is  a  common  drudge. 
To  fight  our  cause  before  the  judge! 
And,  what  is  yet  a  greater  curse, 
Condemn'd  to  bear  his  client's  purse, 
While  he,  at  ease,  secure  and  light, 
Walks  boldly  home  at  dead  of  night: 
When  term  is  ended  leaves  the  town, 
Trots  to  his  country-mansion  down, 
And,  disencumber'd  of  his  load, 
No  danger  dreads  upon  the  road; 
Despiseth  rapparees,  and  rides 
Safe  through  the  Newry  mountains'  sides.  ^ 


SAMUEL    BOYSE. 


Born  1708  — Died  1749. 


[Samuel  Boyse  is  a  glaring  instance  of  how 
readily  a  man  of  genius  may  be  a  fool  iu  con- 
duct, and  how  the  grossest  manners  and  most 
unpardonable  vices  may  co-exist  with  the  most 
wonderful  talent.  He  is  also  a  proof,  if  proof 
were  needed,  that  Bohemianism  is  a  weakness 


and  not  a  strength,  and  that  those  who  follow 
it  because  men  of  genius  have  been  Bohemians, 
are  about  as  wise  as  if  they  desired  to  be  in- 


1  Famous  for  the  exploits  of  Redmond  O'Hanlon,  the 
Irish  Robin  Hood. 


SAMUEL   BOYSE. 


96 


oculated  with  some  foul  disease  because  some 
great  poet  or  writer  had  one  time  suffered 
from  it.  Boyse's  life  is  indeed  among  the 
saddest  in  all  our  long  list  of  many-sided 
and  mauy-fated  authoi-s. 

Boyse  wiis  born  in  Dublin  in  the  year  1708. 
He  was  the  son  of  a  well-known  Dissenting 
minister  of  that  day,  one  of  whose  sermons 
was  ordered  to  be  burned  by  the  Irish  parlia- 
ment in  1711.  He  received  the  rudiments 
of  his  education  at  a  private  school,  and  at 
eighteen  was  sent  to  the  University  of  Glas- 
gow, where,  before  completing  his  first  year 
of  study,  he  married  a  tradesman's  daughter. 
The  marriage  was  an  unhappy  one  ;  vice  and 
extravagance  wedded  to  vice  and  extravagance. 
However,  though  vexed  at  his  marriage,  the 
foolish  father  of  the  foolish  poet  continued  for 
a  whde  to  support  him,  but  this  at  last  ceasing, 
Boyse  moved  to  Edinburgh,  where  his  genius 
and  talents  soon  procured  him  many  friends. 
Among  these  was  the  Countess  of  Eglinton, 
to  whom  in  1731  he  addressed  his  first  volume 
of  poems.  About  this  time  also  appeared  his 
elegy  on  Lady  Stormount,  entitled  The  Tears 
of  the  Muses,  which  is  still  spoken  of  as  a 
graceful  poem,  and  with  which  Lord  Stor- 
mount was  so  much  pleased  that  he  presented 
Boyse  with  a  handsome  donation. 

The  success  of  these  publications,  as  well  as 
the  favour  of  those  able  to  further  him,  might 
well  have  been  used  by  Boyse  as  a  first  step 
towards  fame  and  greatness.  But  his  nature 
was  low  and  grovelling,  and  so  soon  as  he 
became  possessed  of  a  pound  or  two  it  was 
spent  in  vulgar  but  costly  luxuries  and  dissi- 
pation. He  soon  fell  into  such  a  state  of 
wretchedness  and  contempt  that  he  determined 
to  leave  Edinburgh  and  try  his  fortune  in  the 
gi-eat  metropolis.  This  decision  he  made  known 
to  the  Duchess  of  Gordon,  who,  still  believing 
in  his  abilities,  gave  him  a  letter  of  recom- 
mendation to  Pope,  and  obtained  him  another 
to  Lord-chancellor  King.  However,  on  coming 
to  London  he  was  too  indolent  to  make  use  of 
the  recommendations,  and  in  a  short  time  he 
had  fallen  so  low  that  he  had  no  clothes  to 
appear  in.  Gibber  says  that  he  had  neither 
shirt  nor  coat  nor  any  kind  of  apparel ;  "the 
sheets  in  which  he  lay  were  gone  to  the  pawn- 
broker's ;  he  was  obliged  to  be  confined  to  bed 
with  no  other  covering  than  a  blanket;  and 
he  had  little  support  bxit  what  is  got  by  writ- 
ing letters  to  his  friends  in  the  most  abject 
style.  His  mode  of  studying  and  writing  was 
curious :  he  sat  up  in  bed,  with  the  blanket 
wrapped  about  him,  through  which  he  had 


cut  a  hole  large  enough  to  admit  his  arm,  and, 
placing  the  paper  on  his  knee,  scribbled  in  the 
best  manner  he  could." 

In  1742  he  got  thrown  into  a  sponging- 
house,  but  by  some  means  obtained  his  liberty 
l)efore  long.  About  this  time  he  wrote 
several  poems,  "  but  these,  though  excellent  of 
their  kind,  were  lost  to  the  world  by  being 
introduced  with  no  advantage."  He  had  also 
constantly  recourse  to  the  meanest  tricks  to 
procure  donations  or  so-called  loans.  Some- 
times he  would  cause  his  wife  to  appear  in 
tears  and  declare  that  he  was  on  the  point  of 
death,  and  when  relieved  by  some  one  his 
benefactor  would  probably  be  astonished  by 
meeting  the  dying  man  next  day  in  the  street. 
In  1743  he  published  a  successful  ode  on  the 
Battle  of  Dettingen,  entitled  Albion's  Triumph. 
In  1745  he  was  at  Beading,  engaged  on  a  hack 
work  "An  Historical  Review  of  the  Transac- 
tions of  Europe,  from  the  Commencement  of 
the  War  with  Spain  in  1739,  to  the  Insurrec- 
tion in  Scotland  in  1745."  This  appeared  in 
1747,  and,  according  to  one  of  his  biographers, 
"is  said  not  to  be  destitute  of  merit." 

While  at  Reading  his  wife  died,  and  on  his 
return  to  London  Boyse  for  a  time  acted  a  Uttle 
more  decently  than  usual.  Reform,  however, 
was  now  almost  too  late:  his  health  was  mined, 
and  he  could  only  drag  on  a  miserable  career 
until,  in  May,  1749,  after  a  lingering  illness, 
he  died  in  a  low  lodging  in  Shoe  Lane,  and  was 
buried  by  the  parish  authorities  of  St.  Bride's. 
In  the  two  volumes  of  Boyse's  works  which 
have  been  published  many  jwems  deserve  to 
rank  very  high.  The  Home  of  Content  is 
a  poem  which  might  have  been  written  by 
Akenside  at  his  very  best ;  but  The  Glory  of 
the  Deity  is  a  noble  poem,  which  Akenside 
even  at  his  best  could  never  have  wi-itten. 
Harvey,  no  very  great  critic,  by  the  way, 
speaks  of  it  as  "a  beautiful  and  instructive 
])oem;"  and  Fielding,  a  much  more  weighty 
authority,  gives  a  quotation  from  it  which  he 
calls  "a  noble  one,  and  taken  from  a  poem 
long  since  buried  in  oblivion;  a  proof  that 
good  books,  no  more  than  good  men,  do  not 
always  survive  the  bad."  However,  the  poem 
had  not  fallen  into  such  oblivion  as  Fielding 
imagined,  for  by  1752  a  third  edition  of  it  had 
appeared.  The  chief  beauties  of  Boyse's  poetry 
are,  strange  to  say,  sublimity,  elegance,  and 
pathos ;  their  chief  defect  a  certain  looseness 
of  construction  in  places,  caused  by  rapidity 
of  production  and  utter  want  of  revision.  His 
poems  were  each  flung  upon  the  world  to 
serve  some   momentary   nurpose,  and   when 


SAMUEL   BOYSE. 


this  was  efiected  he  thought  and  cared  no 
ruore  about  them.  In  addition  to  the  two 
vohimes  published,  it  is  said  there  are  enough 
equally  good  to  till  four  more  such.  Who  will 
look  after  them  and  give  them  to  the  world  1] 


HOPE'S   FAREWELL. 

"0  Life,  vain  joy,  which  mortals  court, 
The  prey  of  death  and  fortune's  sport, 
Tell  me,  when  so  unkind  to  me, 
Oh  why  should  I  be  fond  of  thee  ? 

"AVhen  from  the  silent  womb  of  space. 
Struggling  I  broke  to  thy  embrace, 
My  tears  prophetic  seem'd  to  tell 
You  meant  not.  Life,  to  use  me  well. 

"The  joys  you  gave  my  youth  to  taste 
Were  but  like  children's  toys  at  best. 
Which  passion  grasped  with  eager  play. 
But  reason,  frowning,  threw  away ! 

"Yet,  fond  enchantress,  still  thy  wile 
Had  power  my  senses  to  beguile, 
Cheated,  although  the  fraud  I  knew, 
And  pleased  because  it  still  was  new. 

"In  vain  I  heard,  in  vain  I  read. 
Of  thousands  by  thy  love  betray 'd  ! 
I  listened  to  thy  magic  call. 
And  held  thee  dear  in  spite  of  all. 

"Led  by  thy  captivating  hand 
Through  wanton  pleasure's  fairy  land, 
I  cried,  unskill'd  in  future  harms, 
0  Life,  how  lovely  are  thy  charms ! 

"But  on  the  front  of  riper  years 
Advanced  a  train  of  sullen  cares. 
While  giddy  Fortune  turned  her  head, 
And  Pleasure's  golden  prospects  fled. 

' '  'Twas  then,  of  all  recourse  bereaved. 
Too  late  I  found  myself  deceived, 
And  wish'd,  fond  Life,  with  vain  regret, 
That  thou  and  I  had  never  met. " 

But  Life,  who  treats  with  high  disdain 
The  worn-out  slaves  that  drag  her  chain. 
Regardless  all  my  griefs  survey'd, 
And  triumphed  in  the  ills  she  made. 

Abandoned  thus  to  Fortune's  rage, 
Soon  I  was  spied  by  trem1)Iing  Age, 
Who  bid  me  calm  my  anxious  breast. 
For  he  would  lead  me  soon  to  rest. 


When  Hope,  a  nymph  of  heav'nly  race, 
Addressed  in  smiles  her  cheerful  face. 
Soft  interposed  with  friendly  air. 
To  save  me  from  the  arms  of  Care. 

"And  what,  unhappy,  tempts  thee  so?" 
She  cried,  "and  whither  wouldst  thou  go? 
'Tis  but  a  mark  of  weakness  shown 
To  fly  from  life  to  ills  unknown. 

"Go  ask  the  wretch  in  torture  this. 
Why  courts  he  life  if  not  a  bliss? 
Nor  quits  the  partner  Nature  gave 
For  the  cold  horrors  of  the  grave." 

Short  I  replied — "False  nymph,  forbear 
With  syren  tales  to  soothe  my  ear; 
Forbear  thy  arts,  too  often  tried, 
Kor  longer  thou  shalt  be  my  guide. 

"Ten  tedious  years ! — a  space  too  long — ■ 
Still  hast  thou  led,  and  led  me  wrong; 
At  least  thy  vain  attendance  cease. 
And  leave  me  here  to  die  in  peace." 

To  which  she  answered  with  a  sigh, 
"Thou  hast  thy  wish  !  if  I  comply 
Death  soon  will  ease  thee,  left  alone, 
For  Life  is  lost  when  Hope  is  gone." 


THE   HOME   OF   CONTENT. 

The  tempest  ceas'd — and  all  the  sober  night 

Intent  our  course  aerial  we  pursued. 

Till,  as  Aurora  dawn'd  with  ruddy  light, 

An  island  we  perceived  that  stemm'd  the  flood. 

No  hills  nor  trees  adorn'd  the  level  soil 

Where  bleating  flocks  a  plenteous  herbage  found; 

Low  lay  the  prospect  of  the  bleating-  isle. 

With  here  and  there  a  spot  of  tillage  ground 

By  which  the  humble  village  stood  descry'd. 

Where  never  entered  arts,  or  luxury,  or  pride ! 

O'er  many  a  sea-green  holm  we  wafted  went. 

Where  undisturbed  the  feathered  nations  lay ! 

Till,  lighting  on  the  plain  with  soft  descent, 

We  saw  a  reverend  form  advance  our  way. 

And  now  approaching  with  an  easy  pace. 

The  venerable  sage  before  us  stands: 

White  were  his  hairs,  and  cheerful  was  his  face. 

At  once  delights  his  aspect  and  commands. 

I  felt  all  care  suspended  at  his  view, 

Whom  better  far  than  I  his  kindred  goddess  knew. 

Of  homespun  russet  was  the  garb  he  v.'ore, 

Girt  with  a  velvet  seal's  divided  skin; 

Of  woollen  varn  the  mittens  which  he  wore, 


SAMUEL   BOYSE. 


97 


To  keep  him  from  the  breath  of  Boreas  thin. 
An  easy  path  along  the  verdant  ground 
Soon  to  his  hospitable  cottage  led; 
Ere  yet  instructed,  I  my  error  found, 
Nor  knew  the  cause  my  first  emotion  bred 
Till,  as  into  his  clean  abode  we  went, 
Kind  Patience  whispered  me  our  host  was  called 
Content. 

Sweet  was  his  earthen  floor  with  rushes  spread. 
Sweet  was  each  shell-wrought  bowl  and  wooden 

dish, 
Sweet  was  the  quilt  composed  his  healthy  bed. 
Nor  wanted  he  for  fowl  or  sun-dried  fish. 
And  milk  of  sheep,  and  turf,  a  plenteous  store, 
Which  lay  beneath  his  comfortable  roof; 
No  storms,  no  accidents  could  make  him  poor, 
He  and  his  house,  I  ween,  were  weather-proof. 
A  bachelor  he  wonde,  devoid  of  care. 
Which  made  him  now  appear  so  healthy  and  so  fair. 

Long  time  with  Patience  fair  discourse  he  held 
(Oft  had  the  goddess  been  his  welcome  guest). 
Nor  she  the  friendly  intercourse  repell'd, 
But  the  good  sire  familiarly  address'd. 
Thus  were  we  happily  conversant  set, 
When  from  the  neighbouring  village  rose  a  cry. 
And  drew  our  hasty  steps  where  numbers  met. 
Like  us,  appear'd  to  know  the  reason — Why? 
Nor  needed  answer:  on  the  seaweed  spray — 
Too  visible  reply ! — the  wave-toss'd  body  lay. 

How  stood  I  shock'd — when  in  the  semblant  face 

(By  death  unalter'd,  or  the  cruel  flood) 

I  could  of  Lycidas  each  feature  trace, 

Young  Lycidas,  the  learned  and  the  good. 

"0  Heaven !"  cried  I,  "what  sorrows  will  he  feel, 

Debarr'd  the  promis'd  hope  of  thy  return; 

Not  all  his  skill  the  mental  wound  can  heal, 

Or  cure  a  loss  he  must  so  justly  mourn  ! 

How  will  he  weep  when  in  the  ocean  grave 

He  hears  a  brother  lost  he  could  have  died  to  save. " 

Here  with  observant  eye,  and  look  serene, 

Thuscheck'd  the  good  old  man  my  plaintive  speech  : 

"Best  in  submission  piety  is  seen. 

That  lesson  let  thy  kind  conductress  teach: 

But  lest  the  youth  thy  friend  bewails  should  want 

The  rites  departed  merit  ought  to  find. 

Let  these  assembled  natives  kindly  grant 

The  unpolluted  grave,  by  Heaven  assign'd; 

A  corpse  that  claim'd  a  due  interment  more 

Yet  never  wafted  wave  to  Faroe's  guiltless  shore  I " 

He  said — obedient  to  his  just  commands 
The  zealous  youth  the  breathless  body  bear; 
Some  form  the  sepulchre  with  careful  hands. 
While  round  the  virgins  drop  the  artless  tear. 
Such  flowers  as  nature  grants  the  ruder  clime. 
Such  flowers  around  with  pious  care  they  shed, 
VOL.  I. 


And  sing  the  funeral  dirge  in  Runic  rhyme, 
Allotted  to  the  sa-ie  or  warrior  dead: 
While  as  these  fruitless  honours  are  bestow'd. 
Content,  with  sober  speech,  his  purpose  thus  avow'd : 

"What  boots  thee  now,  lost  youth!  that  cross  the 

main 
Thou  spread  the  daring  sail  from  pole  to  pole. 
Wealth  to  acquire,  and  knowledge  to  attain, — - 
Knowledge,  the  nobler  treasure  of  thy  soul. 
Beneath  the  scorching  of  the  medial  line, 
On  Afric's  sand,  and  India's  golden  coast, 
Virtue  gave  thee  with  native  truth  to  shine, 
Drest  in  each  excellence  that  youth  could  boast, 
And  now  she  gives  thee  from  the  wave  to  rise, 
And  reach  the  safer  port  prepared  thee  in  the  skiea. 

"Yet  take  these  honours,  thy  deserv'd  reward. 
Call  this  imtroubled  spot  of  earth  thy  own. 
Here  shall  thy  ashes  find  a  due  regard. 
And  annual  sweets  around  thy  grave  be  thrown: 
Directing  Heaven  ordain'd  thy  early  end 
From  fraud  and  guilt  to  .save  thy  blameless  youth; 
To  show  that  death  no  terrors  can  attend 
Where  piety  resides  and  holy  truth. 
Here  take  thy  rest  within  this  hallow'd  ground. 
Till   the   last  trump  emit   the  death-awakening 
sound." 

He  ceas'd:  attentive  to  the  words  he  said. 
In  earth  the  natives  place  the  honoured  clay, 
With  holy  rites  they  cover  up  his  head, 
A  spotless  grave  where  never  mortal  lay. 
Charm'd  with  the  simple  manners  of  the  isle, 
I  wish'd  some  further  knowledge  to  receive; 
Here  could  have  dwelt  with  old  Content  awhile, 
And  leam'd  of  him  the  happiness  to  live! 
When  Patience  from  my  side  abruptly  broke, 
And  starting  at  the  loss  I  suddenly  awoke! 


THE   GOLDEN  RULE. 

Honest  friend  !  say  all  you  can. 
In  life  still  holds  the  golden  rule: 

That  riches  make  a  fool  a  man, 
And  poverty  a  man — a  fool  I 


JUSTICE,   WHY   BLIND? 

Says  Will  to  Mat — "What  cause  can  be  assign'd 
Why  sacred  Themis  still  is  pictured  blind?" 
' '  Because, ' '  says  Will,  ' '  when  towering  vice  prevails 
She  may  excuse  the  error  of  her  scales; 
For  most  who  know  this  present  age  agree, 
Whate'er  she  thinks, — she  does  not  care  to  see!" 

7 


98 


SIK  HANS  SLOANE. 


SIR    HANS     SLOANE. 


Born  1660  — Died  1752. 


[Sir  Hans  Sloane,  ever  memorable  as  the 
actual  founder  of  the  British  Museum,  was 
born  at  Killyleagh  in  the  county  of  Down,  on 
the  16th  of  April,  1660.  His  father  was  col- 
lector of  taxes  for  the  county,  and  as  such  was 
able  to  give  his  son  a  good  education,  in  the 
process  of  which  the  bent  of  his  genius  towards 
the  study  of  natural  history  disclosed  itself. 
At  sixteen,  owing  to  intense  application,  he 
was  attacked  with  a  spitting  of  blood,  and  for 
almost  three  years  his  life  was  despaired  of. 
At  the  end  of  this  time  he  recovered,  and 
choosing  physic  for  his  profession  at  once 
plunged  into  the  study  of  chemistry  and  botany. 
To  acquire  these  thoroughly  he  removed  to 
London,  where  for  four  years  he  attended  all 
the  public  lectures  on  chemistry,  anatomy,  and 
botany.  During  this  time  also  he  made  the 
aoquaintance  of  Boyle  and  Ray,  to  both  of 
whom  he  gave  help,  and  from  them  received 
advice  and  assistance. 

At  the  end  of  his  four  years  in  London  he 
went  to  Paris,  where  he  attended  the  hospitals, 
and  heard  the  lectures  of  Tournefort  and 
Duberney.  From  Tournefort  he  received 
letters  of  introduction  to  the  chancellor  of  the 
University  of  Montpellier;  by  him  he  was  in- 
troduced to  M.  Magnol,  an  eminent  botanist, 
who  accompanied  him  in  many  botanical  ex- 
cursions. After  spending  a  whole  year  in 
making  collections  around  Montpellier  he 
made  a  journey  through  Languedoc  with  the 
same  object  in  view;  and  in  1684  returned  to 
London,  where  he  intended  to  settle  and  follow 
his  profession  of  physic.  In  1685  he  was 
elected  a  Fellow  of  the  Royal  Society,  and  in 
1687  a  Fellow  of  the  College  of  Physicians. 
From  this  time  his  London  practice  was  very 
lucrative,  and  a  fortunate  speculation  in  a 
quantity  of  cinchona  which  he  imported  helped 
to  build  up  his  fortune. 

Before  long,  however,  the  prospects  of  mak- 
ing new  discoveries  in  natural  history  induced 
him  to  go  out  to  Jamaica  as  physician  to  the 
Duke  of  Albemarle,  then  governor  of  that  island. 
Although  he  remained  only  some  fifteen  months 
in  Jamaica,  yet  when  he  returned  to  England 
he  brought  with  him  a  surprising  collection  of 
plants  as  well  as  a  rich  collection  of  animal 
specimens.  In  1693  he  was  appointed  secre- 
tary to  the  Royal  Society,  and  as  his  first  work 


in  his  new  position  revived  the  publication  oi' 
the  Society's  Transactions,  which  had  been 
interrupted.  These  he  continued  to  edit  till 
1712,  and  in  the  volumes  for  this  period  will 
be  found  many  papers  from  his  pen.  In  1694 
he  was  chosen  physician  to  Christ's  Hospital, 
the  money  from  which  appointment  he  de- 
voted entirely  to  the  relief  of  poor  patients  in 
the  hospital.  In  1695  he  married,  and  in  1697 
published  his  Catalogue  of  the  Native  Plants 
of  Jamaica.  In  1701  his  rich  collections  were 
made  still  richer  by  a  bequest  from  a  friend, 
Mr.  William  Coui-ten,  who  had  spent  the 
greater  part  of  his  fortune  and  lifetime  in 
getting  together  the  museum  which  he  left 
to  Sloane.  At  this  time  his  position  no!; 
only  as  a  scientific  man  but  also  as  a  phy- 
sician was  very  high.  He  was  constantly 
consulted  by  Queen  Anne,  and  attended  her 
during  her  last  illness.  On  the  accession  of 
George  I.  he  was  created  a  baronet,  and  made 
physician-general;  and  in  1727  he  was  ap- 
pointed physician  to  George  II.  In  the  same 
year  also,  on  the  death  of  Newton,  he  was  ap- 
pointed president  of  the  Royal  Society ;  and 
in  1733,  owing  to  growing  years  and  labours, 
he  resigned  the  presidentship  of  the  Royal 
College  of  Physicians,  to  which  he  had  been 
elected  in  1719.  In  1740,  at  the  age  of  eighty, 
he  resigned  the  presidentship  of  the  Royal 
Society  and  retired  to  Chelsea,  where  he  had 
established  a  botanic  garden.  Here  he  con- 
tinued to  receive  the  visits  of  learned  men, 
native  and  foreign,  and,  says  his  biogi-apher^ 
"admittance  was  never  refused  to  the  poor, 
who  came  to  consult  him  concerning  their 
health."  After  an  illness  of  only  three  days, 
he  died  on  the  11th  of  January,  1752,  in  his 
ninety-second  year. 

In  the  wiU  left  by  Sir  Hans  Sloane  he  be- 
queathed a  sum  of  money  to  every  hospital  in 
London;  he  gave  the  Company  of  the  Apothe- 
caries the  freehold  of  the  botanical  garden  at 
Chelsea,  where  a  marble  statue  was  afterwards 
erected  to  his  memory;  and  to  the  nation 
he  devised  his  museum,  worth  at  least  £80,000, 
on  the  condition  tliat  £20,000  should  be  paid 
to  his  family.  Tlie  coins  in  1>he  collection 
were  worth  as  bullion  some  £7000,  and  indeed 
"the  intrinsic  value  of  the  gold  and  silver 
medals,  the  ores  and  precious  stones,  that  were 


SIR  HANS   SLOANE. 


99 


found  in  it"  was  alone  equal  to  the  ^2(),0(X). 
Besides  these  rich  specimens  and  the  natural 
history  collections,  the  museum  also  contained 
a  library  of  more  than  50,000  volumes,  3566 
of  whicli  were  manuscripts,  and  a  large  num- 
ber very  rare  and  curious.  The  government 
of  course  accepted  the  offer  contained  in  the 
will,  and  the  museum  was  removed  to  Mon- 
tagu House,  Bloomsbury.  It  there  formed 
the  nucleus  of  one  of  our  noblest  institutions, 
the  British  Museum,  which  was  opened  in 
1759  to  the  general  public. 

In  addition  to  his  Catalogue  of  Jamaica 
Plants,  Sir  Hans  Sloane  wrote  The  Natural 
History  of  Jamaica,  which  appeared  in  two 
volumes  folio  in  1707  and  1725.  He  also  wrote 
a  considerable  number  of  papers,  many  of 
which,  as  we  have  said,  appeared  in  the  Trans- 
actions of  the  Royal  Society.  The  larger  work 
has  been  highly  commended,  not  only  at  the 
time  of  its  appearance,  but  frequently  since 
then,  notably  by  Dr.  Friend  in  his  History  of 
Physic] 


THE   COCO   TREE. 

Pyrara  de  la  Val,  who  Kved  several  years 
in  the  Maldive  Islands,  and  by  his  own  ex- 
perience knew  more  of  this  tree  than  any 
writer  I  know  of,  tells  that  there  it  is  called 
Roul,  in  Malabar  Tengua,  in  Guzaratte  Nar- 
quilly,  by  the  Portuguese  Palermo  and  fi'uit 
Cocos ;  it  grows  only  in  the  torrid  zone,  tho' 
there  not  everywhere ;  more  in  the  Maldives 
than  in  any  other  part;  they  are  forced  to  cut 
them  down  to  make  room  for  houses,  which 
they  suffer  them  not  near,  because  the  winds 
sometimes  blow  them  down  on  their  houses 
and  kill  the  inhabitants  in  them.  Rats  eat 
holes  in  them  when  green  for  meat  and  drink, 
whereby  they  dry  and  fall,  often  killing  those 
about  them,  because  of  the  height,  with  their 
weight,  so  that  in  the  desert  isles  the  ground 
is  covered  with  them,  but  not  so  where  the 
isles  are  inhabited,  because  when  so  dried  they 
make  good  fuel.  Ants  make  their  tracks  at 
their  feet,  and  carry  the  earth  from  them, 
whence  they  fall.  They  grow  twenty  toises 
high.  The  under  half  of  the  tree  is  good  for 
building  and  shipping.  The  under  part,  three 
foot  high  where  'tis  thickest,  makes  a  ti'ough 
for  honey  or  water.  Cocos  are  sometimes  in 
a  bunch ;  a  bunch  comes  every  mouth ;  it  loves 
moist  and  sandy  gi-ound,  and  does  not  come 
well  within  laud ;  if  no  water  be  in  it  and  it 
be  too  dry  it  will  not  giow.     The  whole  fruit 


must  be  planted,  othei-wise  it  corrupts ;  when 
water  shakes  on  striking  on  it  or  not  it  is  a 
sign  of  its  being  ripe  or  not.  The  middle  rib 
cleaves  and  makes  laths  and  palisades;  the 
leaves  serve  for  tliatch ;  witli  stiles  they  write 
on  them  as  pai)er.  They  are  used  for  sails, 
mats,  hats,  panniers,  and  parasols,  and  every- 
thing usually  in  Europe  made  of  osier  or  wil- 
low; little  baskets,  brooms,  and  coffers  are 
uaade  of  the  middle  ribs  of  it.  Javelins  are 
made  of  the  middle  ribs  tied  together  and 
lacquered.  They  make  pins  of  them  likewise, 
and  steep  the  bark  of  the  fruit  or  husk  some- 
what green  peel'd  from  the  nuts  to  make  ropes 
or  oakum.  It  is  to  lie  three  weeks  in  the  sea- 
water  covered  with  sand,  then  the  inhabitants 
beat  it  as  hemp  or  flax  with  wooden  mallets, 
make  match  of  it  when  the  fruit  is  ripe,  which 
is  not  soaked  and  beat  but  spun  with  all  its 
substance,  when  they  boil  it  with  ashes  and 
use  it  for  match  all  over  the  Indies,  except 
where  cocos  are  scarce,  where  they  use  cotton. 
Pots,  s^joons,  and  cups  are  made  of  the  shell, 
and  forge  coal.  The  kernel  is  eat  as  bread 
with  other  victuals,  and  grated  and  pressed; 
it  gives  milk,  as  sugared  milk  or  almond  milk, 
and  with  honey  or  sugar  is  drank  fasting,  and 
is  their  only  purging  medicine.  This  milk 
boiled  thickens  and  turns  into  oil  fit  for  fri- 
casees,  &c.,  for  lamps,  and  for  curing  ulcere. 
The  author  was  cured  with  it ;  it  is  also  good 
for  the  itch.  From  a  yellow  oil  it  gi-ows  a 
white  butter,  being  kept  three  months  to  be 
used  as  oil.  The  marc  or  dry  part  of  the 
kernel,  pressed  with  honey  or  sugar,  is  used 
to  make  preserves;  when  very  young  husk  and 
all  is  eat  like  an  apple,  but  this  is  only  one 
kind,  which  is  not  good  when  ripe.  They 
make  quarts  or  measures  of  the  spathes  and 
conserves  of  the  flowers.  The  membrane  be- 
tween the  leaves  is  good  to  make  sacks  and 
also  sieves  to  strain  things  through.  The 
Indians  cut  the  flowering  footstalk  a  foot 
high,  and  get  a  sort  of  wine,  a  quart  a  day  for 
six  months;  they  boil  it  with  some  clear  white 
stones  found  in  the  sea,  and  make  it  into  honey 
or  sugar,  and  with  other  stones  it  is  made 
whiter;  they  make  good  arrack  and  good 
vinegar  of  it.  The  drawing  this  liquor  spoils 
the  fruit  of  the  tree.  The  tender  top,  three 
foot  in  length,  is  good  to  eat.  The  ripe  fniit, 
left  in  moist  places  or  in  the  gi'ound  three 
weeks  or  a  month,  the  sprout  or  germen  is 
good  meat  and  very  tender.  They  dry  the 
kernel  to  send  it  to  Arabia,  by  dividing  the 
nut  in  two  and  exposing  it  to  the  sun  to  dry. 


100 


THOMAS   SOUTHEENE. 


THOMAS    SOUTHEENE. 


Born  1660  — Died  1746. 


[Thomas  Southerne,  whom  one  of  his  bio- 
gi'aphers  calls  "  the  great  founder  of  our 
modern  school  of  dramatic  production,"  was 
born  at  Oxmanstown  near  Dublin,  in,  accord- 
ing to  Gibber,  the  year  1660.  He  was  edu- 
cated for  a  short  time  at  the  university  in  that 
city,  and  in  his  eighteenth  year  quitted  Ire- 
land and  went  to  Oxford.  From  Oxford  he 
removed  to  Middle  Temple,  London,  where, 
instead  of  law,  he  studied  poetry,  and  devoted 
himself  to  the  Muses.  Soon  after  this  he 
made  the  acquaintance  of  Dryden,  and  in 
1682,  when  in  his  twenty-third  year,  his  first 
play,  The  Persian  Prince,  or  Loyal  Brothers, 
appeared,  with  a  prologue  by  the  mighty 
John.  It  was  highly  successful,  and  so  pleased 
the  Duke  of  York,  that  on  his  accession  to  the 
throne  he  gave  Southerne  a  commission  as 
captain  under  himself.  On  James's  abdication 
the  poet  retired  to  his  studies,  and  commenced 
anew  a  successful  career  of  play-writing. 
Before  this,  however,  he  had  in  1684  produced 
The  Disappointment,  which  was,  like  his  first 
play,  a  great  success.  His  fii'st  work  now  to 
appear  was  The  Rambling  Lady,  or  Sir  Anthony 
Love,  produced  in  1690,  and  favoured  by  the 
public  like  the  others.  In  1692  appeared  The 
Wives'  Excuse,  generally  reckoned  a  better 
play  than  any  of  the  three  previous  ones,  yet 
it  was  badly  received.  On  this  Southerne 
immediately  printed  the  play  with  a  copy  of 
commendatory  verses  by  Dryden  prefixed  to 
it.  In  these  verses  Dryden  attributes  the 
failure  of  the  play  to  the  bad  taste  of  the 
audience  and  not  to  any  defect  in  Southerne's 
work;  and  Southerne  in  his  remarks  stated 
that  Dryden,  in  speaking  of  it,  had  said  that 
"the  public  had  been  kind  to  Sir  Anthony 
Love  and  were  only  required  to  be  just  to 
this." 

However,  Southerne  was  not  to  be  dis- 
heartened, but  rather  learned  a  lesson  l^y  the 
comparative  failure  of  The  Wives'  Excuse,  and 
in  1693  appeared  7%e  Maid's  Last  Prayer. 
In  1694  he  produced  his  Isabella,  or  the  Fatal 
Marriage,  a  play  which  to  this  day  keeps  the 
stage,  and  which,  with  his  Oroonoko,  must  be 
ranked  among  the  first-class  plays  in  our  lan- 
guage. Oroonoko  appeared  in  1696,  and  is 
said  by  some  to  be  the  very  best  of  his  plays. 
The  editor  of   Cumberland's  British   Theatre 


says  that  "as  a  poem  it  is  nearly  all  that 
criticism  can  desire,"  and  he  jjoints  out  several 
passages  in  it  which  he  considei-s  "  eminently 
beautiful."  In  1700  his  Siege  of  Capua  was 
produced,  and  in  1713  a  complete  edition  of 
his  then  works  appeared  in  two  volumes,  in- 
cluding The  Spartan  Dame,  which  was  not 
acted  till  1719.  Finally,  in  1726  appeared  the 
last  of  his  plays,  Money  is  the  Mistress,  and  an 
edition  of  his  works,  including  this  last  play, 
was  published  some  time  after  in  three  vols. 
12mo. 

As  we  have  indicated,  Southerne's  career  as 
a  dramatist  was  a  successful  one.  In  his 
preface  to  The  Spartayi  Dame  he  acknowledges 
having  received  £150  for  it  from  the  book- 
sellers, a  price  then  thought  very  extraordi- 
nary. To  Dryden  he  once  owned  that  he  had 
made  £700  altogether  by  one  of  his  plays,  but 
it  must  be  confessed  he  had  a  business  facidty 
for  pushing  his  wares  that  Dryden  did  not 
possess,  and  might  have  thought  it  beneath 
him  to  exercise.  Pope  speaks  of  him  in  his 
kindly  Epistle  in  1742  as 

"  Tom,  whom  Heaven  sent  down  to  raise 

The  price  of  prologues  and  of  plays  ". 

Southerne  lived  several  years  after  the  pro- 
duction of  his  last  play.  Oldys  says  of  him 
that  "  he  lived  near  Covent  Garden  and  used 
often  to  frequent  the  evening  prayers  there, 
always  neat  and  decently  dressed,  commonly 
in  black,  with  his  silver  sword  and  silver 
locks ;  but  latterly  it  seems  he  resided  at 
Westminster".  Indeed,  he  lived  there  the 
last  ten  years  of  his  life,  and  "  attended  the 
abbey  service  very  constantly  ;  being,  as  it  is 
said,  particularly  fond  of  church  music  ".  On 
the  26th  of  May,  1746,  he  died  at  the  patri- 
archal age  of  eighty-five.] 


EXTRACT   FROM   "OROONOKO". 

[The  story  of  this  tragedy  is,  unhappily,  true. 
In  the  reign  of  Charles  the  Second  an  African 
prince  was  stolen  from  his  native  kingdom  of 
Angola,  and  sold  into  slavery.  The  celebrated 
dramatic  writer  Mr.'^.  Behn,  who  at  that  time 
resided  with  her  family  at  Surinam,  of  which  her 
father    was    lieutenant-general,    was    intimately 


THOMAS   SOUTHERNE. 


101 


acquainted  with  Oroonoko  and  his  Imoinda.  On 
her  return  to  England  she  published  their  me- 
moirs.] 

Enter  Blandford  and  /tis  Party. 

Bland.   O  miserable  sight !  help, 
Assist  me  to  free  him  from  his  chains. 

[They  help  him  up,  and  bring  him 
forward,  looking  down. 
Most  injured  prince!  how  shall  we  clear  ourselves? 
We  are  not  guilty  of  your  injuries, 
No  way  consenting  to  them;  but  abhor. 
Abominate,  and  loathe  this  cruelty. 

Oroo.    If  you   would  have   me   think  you  are 
not  all 
Confederates,  all  accessary  to 
The  base  injustice  of  your  governor; 
If  you  would  have  me  live,  as  you  appear 
Concern'd  for  me;  if  you  would  have  me  live 
To  thank  and  bless  you,  there  is  yet  a  way 
To  tie  me  ever  to  your  honest  love; 
Bring  my  Imoinda  to  me;  give  me  her. 
To  charm  my  soitows,  and,  if  possible, 
I'll  sit  down  with  my  wrong.s,  never  to  rise 
Against  my  fate,  or  think  of  vengeance  more. 

Bland.   Be  satisfied — you  may  depend  upon  us; 
We'll  bring  her  safe  to  you,  and  suddenly. 
In  the  meantime 

Endeavour  to  forget,  sir,  and  forgive; 
And  hope  a  better  fortune. 

[Exeunt  Blandford  and  his  party. 

Oroo.   Forget !  forgive  !  I  must  indeed  forget. 
When  I  forgive;  but,  while  I  am  a  man, 
In  flesh,  that  bears  the  living  marks  of  shame, 
The  print  of  his  dishonourable  chains, 
I  never  can  forgive  this  governor,  I 

This  villain. 

What  shall  I  do?     If  I  declare  myself, 
I  know  him,  he  will  creep  behind  his  guard 
Of  followers,  and  brave  me  in  his  fears; 
"  Else,  lion-like,  with  my  devouring  rage, 
I  would  rush  on  him,  fasten  on  his  throat. 
Tear  a  wide  passage  to  his  treacherous  heart. 
And  that  way  lay  him  open  to  the  world. " 

[Pausing. 
If  I  should  turn  his  Christian  arts  on  him. 
Promise  him,  speak  him  fair,  flatter,  and  creep 
With  fawning  steps  to  get  within  his  faith, 
I  could  betray  him  then,  as  he  has  me; 
But,  am  I  sure  by  that  to  right  myself? 
Lying's  a  certain  mark  of  cowardice; 
And,  when  the  tongue  forgets  its  honesty, 
The  heart  and  hand  may  drop  their  functions  too. 
And  nothing  worthy  be  resolved  or  done. 
Honour  should  be  concerned  in  honour's  cause. 
Let  me  but  find  out 
An  honest  remedy,  I  have  the  hand, 
A  ministering  hand,  that  will  apply  it  home. 

To  honour  bound !  and  yet  a  slave  to  love! 


I  am  distracted  by  their  rival  powers, 

.\nd  both  will  be  obey'd.     O,  great  revenge  I 

Thou  raiser  and  restorer  of  fallen  fame  ! 

Let  me  not  be  unworthy  of  thy  aid, 

For  stopping  in  thy  course:  I  still  am  thine, 

But  can't  forget  I  am  Imoinda's  too. 

She  calls  me  from  my  wrongs  to  rescue  her. 

No  man  condemn  me  who  has  never  felt 

A  woman's  power,  or  tried  the  force  of  love: 

Love,  love  will  be 

My  first  ambition,  and  my  fame  the  next. 

Enter  Aboan,  bloody. 

Aboan.   I  have  no  name 
That  can  distinguish  me  from  the  vile  earth 
To  which  I'm  going:  a  poor  abject  worm. 
That  crawl'd  a  while  upon  the  bustling  world. 
And  now  am  trampled  to  my  dust  again. 

Oroo.   I  see  thee  gash'd  and  mangled. 

Aboan.   Spare  my  shame. 
To  tell  how  they  have  used  me:  but  believe 
The  hangman's  hand  would  have  been  merciful. 
Do  not  you  scorn  me,  sir,  to  think  I  can 
Intend  to  live  under  this  infamy. 
I  do  not  come  for  pity,  but  for  pardon. 

Oroo.   For  pardon!  wound  me  not  with  keener 
anguish 
Than  yet  I  feel,  by  thinking  thou  canst  need  it; 
Thou'st  spent  an  honourable  life  with  me; 
The  earliest  servant  of  my  rising  fame. 

Aboan.  And  would  attend  it  with  my  latest  care: 
My  life  was  yours,  and  so  shall  be  my  death. 
You  must  not  live;  alas!  you  must  not  live: 
Bending  and  sinking,  I  have  dragg'd  my  steps 
Thus  far,  to  tell  you  that  you  cannot  live; 
To  warn  you  of  those  ignominious  wrongs. 
Whips,  rods,  and  all  the  instruments  of  death, 
Which  I  have  felt,  and  are  prepar'd  for  you. 
This  was  the  duty  that  I  had  to  pay. 
'Tis  done,  and  now  I  beg  to  be  discharg'd. 

Oroo.  What  shall  I  do  for  thee  ? 

Aboan.   My  body  tires. 
And  wo'  not  bear  me  off  to  liberty: 
I  shall  again  be  taken,  made  a  slave. 
A  sword,  a  dagger,  yet  would  rescue  me. 
I  have  not  strength  to  go  and  find  out  death. 
You  must  direct  him  to  me. 

Oroo.   Here  he  is.  [Oives  him  a  dagger. 

The  only  present  I  can  make  thee  now: 
I  would  bestow  the  honest  means  of  death. 

Aboan.   I  cannot  stay  to  thank  you.    If  there  is 
A  being  after  this,  I  shall  be  yours 
In  the  next  world,  your  faithful  slave  again. 
This  is  to  try.     (Stabs  himself.)     I  had  a  living 

sense 
Of  all  your  royal  favours,  but  this  last 
Strikes  through  my  heart.      I  wo'  not  say  farewell, 
For  you  must  follow  me.  [Dies. 

Oroo.   In  life  and  death, 


102 


THOMAS    SOUTHERNE. 


The  guardian  of  my  honour.     Follow  thee! 

I  should  have  gone  before  thee;  then,  perhaps, 

Thy  fate  had  been  prevented.     All  his  care 

Was  to  preserve  me  from  the  barbarous  rage 

That  worry'd  him,  only  for  being  mine. 

Why,  why,  ye  gods!  why  am  I  so  accurs'd, 

That  it  must  be  a  reason  of  your  wrath, 

A  guilt,  a  crime  sufficient  to  the  fate 

Of  any  one,  but  to  belong  to  me? 

My  friend  has  found  it  out,  and  my  wife  will  soon ; 

My  wife!  the  very  fear's  too  much  for  life. 

I  can't  support  it.     Where's  Imoinda?     Oh! 

[Going  out  he  meets  Imoinda,  luJio 
runs  into  his  arms. 
Thou  bosom  softness!     Down  of  all  my  cares! 
I  could  recline  my  thoughts  upon  this  breast 
To  a  forgetfulness  of  all  my  griefs. 
And  yet  be  happy;  but  it  wo'  not  be. 
Thou  art  disorder'd,  pale,  and  out  of  breath! 
If  fate  pursues  thee,  find  a  shelter  here. 
What  is  it  thou  wouldst  tell  me? 

Imo.   'Tis  in  vain  to  call  him  villain. 

Oroo.   Call  him  governor;  is  it  not  so? 

Im^.   There's  not  another,  sure. 

Oroo.   Villain's  the  common  name  of  mankind 
here. 
But  his  most  properly.     What?  what  of  him? 
I  fear  to  be  resolv'd,  and  must  inquire. 

What  could  preserve  thee?     What  deliver  thee? 

Imo.  That  worthy  man,  you  us'd  to  call  your 
friend — 

Oroo.   Blandford  ? 

Imo.   Came  in,  and  sav'd  me  from  his  rage. 

Oroo.   He  was  a  friend,  indeed,  to  rescue  thee ! 
And,  for  his  sake,  I'll  think  it  possible 
A  Christian  may  be  yet  an  honest  man. 

Imo.   Oil,  did  you  know  what  I  have  struggled 
through. 
To  save  me  yours,  sure  you  would  promise  me 
Never  to  see  me  forc'd  from  you  again. 

Oroo.    I  have  run  the  race  with  honour,  shall  I 
now 
Lag,  and  be  overtaken  at  the  goal? 

Imo.   No. 

Oroo.   I  must  look  back  to  thee.         [Tenderly. 

Imo.  You  sha'  not  need. 
I  am  always  present  to  your  purpose;  say. 
Which  way  would  you  dispose  me? 
This  dagger  will  instruct  you.  [Gives  it  him. 

Oroo.   Ha!  this  dagger! 
Like  fate,  it  points  me  to  the  horrid  deed. 

Imo.   I'm  ready. 

Oroo.   Oh,  where  shall  I  strike? 
Is  there  the  smallest  grain  of  that  lov'd  body 
That  is  not  dearer  to  me  than  my  eyes. 
My  bosom'd  heart,  and  all  the  life-blood  there? 
Bid  me  cut  off  these  limbs,  hew  off  these  hands, 
Dig  out  these  eyes,  though  I  would  keep  them  last 


To  gaze  upon  thee;  but  to  murder  thee? 
The  joy,  and  charm  of  ev'ry  ravish'd  sense, 
My  wife!  forbid  it,  nature. 

Imo.   'Tis  your  wife. 
Who  on  her  knees  conjures  you.     Oh!  in  time 
Prevent  those  mischiefs  that  are  falling  on  us. 
You  may  be  hurry 'd  to  a  shameful  death. 
And  I  too  dragg'd  to  the  vile  governor; 
Then  I  may  cry  aloud.      When  you  are  gone. 
Where  shall  I  find  a  friend  again  to  save  me? 

Oroo.   It  will  be  so.     Thou  unexampled  virtue! 
Thy  resolution  has  recover'd  mine: 
And  now  prepare  thee. 

Imo.   Thus,  with  open  arms, 
I  welcome  you  and  death. 

[He  drops  the  dagger  as  he  looks  on 
her,  and  throws  himself  on  the 
ground. 

Oroo.   I  cannot  bear  it. 
Oh,  let  me  dash  against  the  rock  of  fate, 
Dig  up  this  earth,  and  tear  her  bowels  out. 
To  make  a  grave,  deep  as  the  centre  down. 
To  swallow  wide  and  bury  us  together! 
It  wo'  not  be.     Oh!  then  some  pitying  god 
(If  there  be  one  a  friend  to  innocence) 
Find  yet  a  way  to  lay  her  beauties  down 
Gently  in  death,  and  save  me  from  her  blood. 

Imo.  Oh,  rise,  'tis  more  than  death  to  see  you 
thus. 
I'll  ease  your  love,  and  do  the  deed  myself — 

[She  takes  up  the  dagger,  he  rises 
in  haste  to  take  it  from  her. 

Oroo.   Oh !  hold,  I  charge  thee,  hold ! 

Imo.   Though  I  must  own 
It  would  be  nobler  for  us  both  from  you. 

Oroo.   Oh!  for  a  whirlwind's  wing  to  hurry  us 
To  yonder  cliff,  which  frowns  upon  the  flood; 
That  in  embraces  lock'd  we  might  plunge  in. 
And  perish  thus  in  one  another's  arms. 

[SJtouts  heard. 

Imo.   Nay,  then,  I  must  assist  you. 
And  since  it  is  the  common  cause  of  both, 
'Tis  just  that  both  should  be  employ'd  in  it. 
Thus,  thus  'tis  finish'd,  and  I  bless  my  fate, 

[Stabs  herself. 
That,  where  I  liv'd,  I  die  in  these  lov'd  arms. 

[Dies. 
Oroo.  She's  gone.      And  now  all's  at  an  end 
with  me. 
Soft,  lay  her  down.     Oh,  we  will  part  no  more. 

[Throics  himself  by  her. 
But  let  me  pay  the  tribute  of  my  grief, 
A  few  sad  tears  to  thy  lov'd  memory, 
And  then  I  follow — 

[  Wee})s  over  her.     Shouts  heard. 
But  I  stay  too  long.  [A  noise  again. 

The  noise  comes  nearer.     Hold  !  before  I  go, 
There's  something  would  be  done.     It  shall  be  so, 
And  then,  Imoinda,  I'll  come  all  to  thee.    [liises. 


MATTHEW   CONCANEN. 


103 


Ehter  Blandford  and  his  Party,  and  the 
Lieutenant -GOVEKNOB  and  his  Party. 
Stvords  drawn. 

Oov.  You  strive  in  vain  to  save  him,  he  shall  die. 

Bland.  Not  while  we  can  defend  him  with  our 
lives. 

Oov.  Where  is  he. 

Oroo.   Here's  the  wretch  whom  you  would  have. 
Put  up  your  swords,  and  let  not  civil  broils 
Engage  you  in  the  cursed  cause  of  one 
Who  cannot  live,  and  now  entreats  to  die. 
This  object  will  convince  you. 

Bland.   'Tis  his  wife  ! 

[They  gather  about  the  body. 
Alas!  there  was  no  other  remedy. 

Oov.   Who  did  the  bloody  deed? 

Oroo.   The  deed  was  mine; 
Bloody  I  know  it  is,  and  I  expect 


Your  laws  shall  tell  me  so.    Thus  self-condemn'd, 
I  do  resign  myself  into  your  hands. 
The  hands  of  justice — but  I  hold  the  sword — 
For  you — and  for  myself. 

[Stabs   the   governor  and   himself, 
then  throws  hinuielf  by  Imoindas 
body. 
Oroo.  'Tis  as  it  should  be  now;  I  have  sent  his 
ghost 
To  be  a  witness  of  that  happiness 
In  the  next  world,  which  he  denied  us  here. 

[Dies. 
Bland.   I  hope  there  is  a  place  of  happiness 
In  the  next  world  for  such  exalted  virtue. 
Pagan  or  unbeliever,  yet  he  lived 
To  all  he  knew;  and,  if  he  went  astray. 
There's  mercy  still  above  to  set  him  right. 
But  Christians,  guided  by  the  heavenly  ray, 
Have  no  excuse  if  they  mistake  their  way. 


MATTHEW    CONCANEN. 


Died  1749. 


[The  date  of  the  birth  of  Matthew  Concanen 
we  have  been  unable  to  discover,  but  certain 
it  is  he  was  born  in  Ireland  and  there  bred  to 
the  law.  While  a  young  man  he  and  a  friend 
named  Stirling  started  for  London  to  seek 
their  fortunes.  Arrived  in  London  he  found 
that  his  skill  as  a  writer  could  best  be  turned 
to  account  by  dealing  with  politics,  and  he 
accordingly  at  once  became  an  advocate  and 
defender  of  government  and  its  policy.  For 
some  time  he  wrote  for  the  British  Journal, 
the  London  Journal,  and  the  Speculatist,  in 
which  he  abused  not  only  Bolingbroke  but 
Pope.  The  consequence  was  that  Concanen 
received  a  ^ilace  in  the  Dunciad,  which  is  sure 
to  keep  his  memory  gi-een  should  his  works 
fail  to  do  so.  In  a  pamphlet  called  A  Sup- 
plement to  the  Profoxtnd,  he  attacked  Pope 
fiercely,  and  somewhat  unfairly,  making  im- 
putations of  a  dishonouring  kind,  for  which 
his  grounds  seem  to  have  been  the  merest 
rumour  and  gossip  of  the  poet's  enemies.  "His 
wit  and  literary  abilities,  however,"  says  one 
biographer,  "recommended  him  to  the  Duke 
of  Newcastle,  through  whose  interest  he  ob- 
tained the  post  of  attorney-general  of  the  island 
of  Jamaica,  which  office  he  filled  with  the  ut- 
most integi'ity  and  honour,  and  to  the  perfect 
satisfaction  of  the  inhabitants,  for  nearly  seven- 
teen years."  Having  acquired  a  considerable 
fortune  he  longed  to  return  home,  and  sailing 


from  Jamaica  he  reached  London,  where  he 
intended  staying  a  short  time  before  settling 
permanently  in  Ireland.  "But,"  says  the  same 
biographer, "  the  diiierenceof  climate  between 
that  metropolis  and  the  place  he  had  so  long 
been  accustomed  to,  had  such  an  effect  on  his 
constitution  that  he  fell  into  a  galloping  con- 
sumption, of  which  he  died  on  January  22, 
1749,  a  few  weeks  after  his  arrival  in  London." 
Apart  from  his  political  writings.  Con  canen's 
chief  works  are  a  play  called  \Yexford  Wells, 
and  several  fugitive  songs  and  ballads. 
The  songs  were  at  one  time  in  considerable 
vogue,  and  many  of  them  are  still  worthy 
of  preservation.  A  number  of  them  will  be 
found  in  The  Musical  Miscellany,  6  vols.  1729. 
In  Miscellaneoiis  Poems  by  Several Hands,\12-i, 
the  greater  number  are  by  Concanen,  who 
was  also  engaged  in  transferring  Broome's 
Jovial  Crew  into  a  ballad  opera,  in  which  form 
it  kept  the  stage  for  a  long  time,] 


THE   ADVICE. 

The  lass  that  would  know  how  to  manage  a  man, 
Let  her  listen  and  learn  it  from  me: 

His  courage  to  quail,  or  his  heart  to  trepan, 
As  the  time  and  occasions  agree,  agree; 
As  the  time  and  occasions  asree. 


104 


MATTHEW   CONCANEN. 


The  girl  that  has  beauty,  though  small  be  her  wit, 
May  wheedle  the  clown  or  the  beau; 

The  rake  may  repel,  or  may  draw  in  the  cit, 
By  the  use  of  that  pretty  word — No! 
By  the  use  of  that  pretty  word — No ! 

When  a  dose  is  contriv'd  to  lay  virtue  asleep, 

A  present,  a  treat,  or  a  ball ; 
She  still  must  refuse,  if  her  empire  she'd  keep, 

And,  No,  be  her  answer  to  all; 

And,  No,  be  her  answer  to  all. 

But  when  Master  Dapperwit  offers  his  hand, 

Her  partner  in  wedlock  to  go; 
A  house,  and  a  coach,  and  a  jointure  in  land — 

She's  an  idiot  if  then  she  says,  No! 

She's  an  idiot  if  then  she  says.  No! 

Whene'er  she's  attack'd  by  a  youth  full  of  charms. 
Whose  courtship  proclaims  him  a  man; 

When  press'd  to  his  bosom,  and  clasp'd  in  his 
arms, 
Then  let  her  say  No,  if  she  can; 
Then  let  her  say  No,  if  she  can.* 


A   LOVE   SONG. 

I  love  thee,  by  Heaven,  I  cannot  say  more; 

Then  set  not  my  passion  a  cooling; 
If  thou  yield'st  not  at  once  I  must  e'en  give  thee 
o'er; 

For  I'm  but  a  novice  at  fooling. 

I  know  how  to  love,  and  to  make  that  love  known; 

But  I  hate  all  protesting  amd  arguing; 
Had  a  goddess  my  heart,  she  should  e'en  be  alone. 

If  she  made  many  words  to  a  bargain. 

I'm  a  Quaker  in  love,  and  but  barely  affirm 
Whate'er  my  fond  eyes  have  been  saying; 

Prythee  be  thou  so  too,  seek  for  no  better  term. 
But  e'en  throw  thy  yea  or  thy  nay  in. 

I  cannot  bear  love,  like  a  Chancery-suit, 

The  age  of  a  patriarch  depending; 
Then  pluck  up  a  spirit,  no  longer  be  mute, 

Give  it,  one  way  or  other,  an  ending. 

Long  courtship's  the  vice  of  a  phlegmatic  fool; 

Like  the  grace  of  fanatical  sinners, 
Where  the  stomachs  are  lost,  and  the  victuals  grow 
cool. 

Before  men  sit  down  to  their  dinners. 


'  This  song  will  Vje  found  set  to  music  in  the  Musical 
Miscellany,  voL  i.  1729. 


OCTOBER   ALE. 

(a  song   from   "WEXFORD  WELLS.") 

How  void  of  ease 
He  spends  his  days 
Who  wastes  his  time  in  thinking? 
How  like  a  beast, 
That  ne'er  can  taste 
The  pleasures  of  good  drinking? 
May  curses  light  upon  the  sot 

That  ever  kennels  sober, 
Or  rises  e'er  without  a  pot 
Of  lovely  brown  October. 

Let  others  raise 
Their  voice  to  praise 
The  Rhenish  or  the  Sherry, 
The  sparkling  white 
Champaign  so  bright. 
The  Claret  or  Canary. 

'Tis  true  they'd  thaw  the  freezing  blood, 

And  hinder  our  being  sober; 
But  what  for  that  was  e'er  so  good 
As  lovely  brown  October? 

What  knaves  are  they 
Who  cross  the  sea 
To  bring  such  stuff  among  us? 
How  blind  are  we, 
Who  will  not  see 
How  grievously  they  wrong  us? 

They  spoil  the  products  of  the  land, 

And  of  her  coin  disrobe  her; 
And  yet  their  dregs  can  never  stand 
Against  our  brave  October. 

My  jolly  boys. 
Let  us  rejoice. 
And  cast  away  all  sorrow; 
Let's  never  think, 
While  thus  we  drink, 
What  may  fall  out  to-morrow. 

Let's  waste  our  wealth,  enjoy  content, 

And  never  more  live  sober: 
By  Jove,  the  coin  is  rightly  spent, 
That's  melted  in  October. 


CUPID'S   REVENGE. 

As  through  the  woods  Panthea  stray'd. 
And  sought  in  vain  her  wand 'ring  sheep, 

Beneath  a  myrtle's  verdant  shade 
She  found  the  god  of  love  asleep. 

His  quiver  underneath  his  head. 
His  bow  unbent  beside  him  lay. 


MATTHEW  CONCANEN. 


105 


His  golden  arrows  round  liim  s{)rea<l, 
To.ss'd  by  the  wind.s  in  wanton  play. 

With  terror  struck  the  nymph  recedes, 

And  softly  on  her  tiptoes  trod; 
Malice  at  length  to  fear  succeeds, 

And  she  returns  and  robs  the  god. 

As  to  purloin  his  bow  she  tries, — 
Of  all  his  scatter'd  shafts  possess'd — 

The  beaming  lustre  of  her  eyes 

Play'd  on  his  face,  and  broke  his  rest. 

Cupid  awaking,  scarce  descry 'd, 

'Twixt  slumber  and  surprise,  the  maid. 

And  rubb'd  his  drowsy  lids,  and  cry'd, 

Who  thought  the  sun  could  pierce  this  shade  ? 

At  length,  recovered  from  his  fright, 
Thus  his  mistaken  thoughts  express'd, 
"Art  thou  return'd,  my  soft  delight? 

Approach,  my  Psyche,  to  my  breast." 

The  frighted  virgin  scarcely  view'd, 

Sprung  from  his  sight  with  eager  haste, 

No  trembling  hare  by  hounds  pursued, 
Or  fear'd  so  much,  or  fled  so  fast. 

Seeking  a  shaft  to  stop  her  flight, 

He  found  himself  of  all  bereft; 
His  loss  soon  set  his  knowledge  right. 

And  show'd  the  plunderer  by  the  theft. 

"Panthea,  stop!"  aloud  he  cries, 
"Why  wouldst  thou,  fair  one,  fly  from  me? 
Restore  my  arrows,  thy  own  eyes 

Have  darts,  as  sharp,  enough  for  thee. " 

(Jnmov'd  by  this,  her  pace  she  mends, 

Regardless  of  his  pain  or  care, 
Th'  entreating  god  no  more  attends 

Than  it  had  been  some  lover's  prayer. 

Cupid,  provok'd,  for  vengeance  tries — 
"  My  leaden  shafts  these  are  not  lost; 
Within  my  pow'r  the  method  lies. 
And  thou  shalt  find  it  to  thy  cost. 

"Enjoy  thy  plunder,  use  my  darts. 

Thy  crime  shall  be  thy  punishment; 
At  random  wound  despairing  hearts. 
Nor,  for  the  pangs  you  give,  relent. 

•'Beauty  was  made  to  be  enjoy'd, 

I'll  mar  the  end  for  which  'twas  giv'n, 
Fill  up  with  pride  thy  reasons  void, 
And  useless  make  that  gift  of  Heav'n. 

"Still  cruelty  shall  taint  thy  breast, 
And  all  thy  smiling  hopes  destroy; 


In  all  my  mother's  beauty  drest. 
Be  thou  a  stranger  to  her  joy. 

"Since  all  t'ne  shafts  thy  glances  throw 
Shall  still  be  poison'd  with  disdain. 
Nor  shalt  thou  e'er  the  pleasure  know 
Of  loving  and  being  lov'd  again. 

"Secure  in  scorn  thy  charms  shall  lie. 
Bloom  unenjoyed,  untasted,  fade, 
Till  thou  at  last  repenting  die. 

An  old,  ill-natur'd,  envious  maid." 

He  said. — And  from  his  quiver  drew 
A  leaden,  hate-procuring  dart. 

And  brac'd  his  bow,  from  whence  it  flew 
Unerring  to  the  fair  one's  heart. 


THE  FOOTBALL  MATCH. 

MOCK-HEROIC. 

The  warlike  leaders  now  their  stations  change. 
And  round  the  field  their  gallant  forces  range. 
Big  with  their  hopes,  and  fearless  of  the  prize, 
Lusk's  champions  their  dishearten'd  foe  despise. 

Unhappy  mortals !  whose  unthinking  mind 
Swells  with  the  present,  to  the  future  blind; 
Pleas'd  without  reason,  vain  without  success; 
Small  joys  exalt  you,  and  small  griefs  depress. 
Sudden  these  hopes  shall  be  for  ever  crost, 
And  all  your  honours  with  the  prize  be  lost. 

First    Paddy  struck   the  ball,    John  stopt   its 
course. 
And  sent  it  backward  with  redoubl'd  force; 
Dick  met,  and  meeting  smote  the  light  machine. 
Reptile  it  ran,  and  skimm'd  along  the  green, 
'Till   Terence   stopp'd — with   gentle   strokes   he 

trolls 
(Th'  obedient  ball  in  short  excursions  rolls), 
Then  swiftly  runs  and  drives  it  o'er  the  plain; 
Follow  the  rest,  and  chase  the  flying  swain. 

So  have  I  seen  upon  a  frosty  day 
(By  fowlers  frighted,  or  in  quest  of  prey). 
Skim  through  the  air,  whole  coveys  of  curlew, 
One  only  leading,  and  the  rest  pursue. 

Paddy,  whose  fleeter  pace  outstript  the  rest, 
Came  up,  and  caught  the  champion  by  the  vest; 
Between  his  legs,  an  artful  crook  he  twin'd. 
And  almost  fell'd  him  ere  he  look'd  behind. 
Norah  with  horror  saw  the  destin'd  wile. 
Grew  pale,  and  blush'd,  and  trembled  for  awhile; 
But  when  she  saw  him  grasp  the  warrior's  hand. 
And  face  to  face  the  grappling  rivals  stand. 
What  difFring  pangs  her  anxious  bosom  tear, 
Now  flush'd  with  hope,  now  chill'd  with  sudden 

fear? 
Paddy,  to  see  the  champion  disengaged. 


106 


BISHOP  BERKELEY. 


For  so  well-form'd  a  trip,  with  fury  rag'd, 
Bounds  to  pursue  the  ball ;  but  Terence  stopt, 
Athwart  him  flung  his  leg,  and  down  he  dropt. 

So  some  tall  pine  which  many  years  has  stood 
The  pride  of  trees,  and  mistress  of  the  wood; 
Braves  for  a  while  the  strokes,  and  seems  to  foil 
The  piercing  axe,  and  mock  the  peasant's  toil; 
'Till  lopp'd  at  length  by  one  fell  dexterous  wound, 
It  falls  and  spreads  its  ruins  all  around. 

While  others  claim  their  well-contended  prize, 
Terence  alone  to  his  dear  Norah  flies, 
Clasps  the  lov'd  fair  one  in  his  eager  arms, 
And  thus  with  softest  elocution  warms  : — 
"  Joy  of  my  life,  and  pleasure  of  my  youth. 
Behold  this  mark,  this  witness  of  my  truth ! 
No  prize  but  you  was  worth  such  hard  pursuit, 
And  for  no  other  would  your  swain  dispute; 
For  you  all  hardships  I  could  learn  to  bear. 
For  you,  with  joy,  I'll  leap  the  stools  next  year. 


Then  quickly  yield,  nor  kill  me  with  delay, 
For  love  and  life  are  fleeter  than  the  day. " 

Silent  she  stood.     The  pressing,  lovely  swain 
Gaz'd  on  her  eyes,  and  read  her  meaning  plain; 
He  saw  the  passion  which  she  could  not  speak 
Pant  on  her  breast,  and  flush  upon  her  cheek. 
Thence  takes  the  hint,  pursues  his  first  intent, 
And  from  her  silence  argues  her  consent ; 
Leads  to  the  nuptial  bow'r  the  willing  maid, 
No  jointure  sfettled,  and  no  portion  paid; 
No  glowing  jewels  from  her  bosom  glare, 
Shine  on  her  hands,  or  glitter  in  her  hair ; 
No  robes  of  white  her  native  charms  adorn, 
Nor  gaudy  silks  are  by  the  virgin  worn; 
But  sweetly  artless,  innocently  gay. 
Her  sparkling  eyes  a  cheerful  light  display; 
The  crimson  blushes  on  her  cheeks  outvie 
The  golden  streaks  that  paint  the  western  sky. 

What  monarch's  envy  might  not  Terence  move. 
So  crown'd  with  conquest,  and  so  blest  with  love  ? 


BISHOP    BERKELEY. 

Born  1684— Died  1753. 


[George  Berkeley,  D.D.,  Bishop  of  Cloyne, 
was  born  at  Desert  Castle,  Kilcrin,  near 
Thomastown,  in  the  county  of  Kilkenny,  on 
the  12th  of  March,  1684.  His  family  is  said  to 
have  been  originally  a  branch  of  that  of  which 
the  earls  of  Berkeley  were  heads;  but  at  any 
rate  it  had  been  settled  in  Ireland  for  at  least 
a  couple  of  generations  before  the  birth  of  the 
great  philosopher.  At  an  early  age  he  went 
to  school  at  Kilkenny,  where  he  obtained  the 
rudiments  of  his  education.  At  fifteen  he 
was  admitted  a  pensioner  of  Trinity  College, 
Dublin,  under  Di-.  Histon.  Afterwards  he 
was  placed  under  Dr.  Hall,  and  in  1707  he 
was  chosen  a  fellow  of  the  university.  In  that 
year  appeared  his  first  work,  Arithmetic  absque 
Algebra  aut  Euclid  demonstrata,  in  which  he 
attempted  to  demonstrate  arithmetic  without 
the  help  of  either  Euclid  or  algebra.  The 
work  had  l)een  written  some  years  before,  and 
is  chiefly  interesting  as  showing  how  early  in 
life  he  had  begun  to  free  himself  from  the 
shackles  of  generally-received  opinions. 

In  1709  appeared  his  Theory  of  Vision,  a 
woik  that  at  once  placed  him  among  the 
philosophers.  Of  course  objectors  to  it  were 
found,  and  in  1733  the  author  published  a 
vindication. 

In  1710,  while  philo.sophers  were  yet  busy 
over  the    Theory  of   Vision,   appeared    The 


Principles  of  Human  Knowledge,  a  work  that 
startled  them  all  as  if  out  of  a  sleep.  In 
1713  he  went  over  to  London,  and  published 
a  defence  and  extension  of  his  theory  under 
the  title  of  Dialogues  of  Hylas  and  Philonous, 
which  drew  upon  him  the  attention  of  Steele 
and  Swift.  Both  the  original  work  and  its 
defence  were  written  in  opposition  to  scep- 
ticism and  atheism,  yet  Hume  says  of  them 
that  they  "  form  the  best  lessons  of  scepticism 
which  are  to  be  found  either  among  the 
ancient  or  modern  philosophers,  Bayle  not 
excepted  ". 

In  a  short  time  Berkeley  became  well 
known,  not  only  to  Steele  and  Swift,  but  to 
Pope  and  others  of  the  same  company.  By 
Swift  he  was  introduced  to  the  Earl  of  Peter- 
borough, by  whom  he  was  carried  into  Italy 
as  secretaiy  and  chaplain  when  that  nobleman 
became  ambassador  to  Sicily  and  the  Italian 
states.  In  1714  he  returned  to  England  in 
company  with  Lord  Peterborough,  and,  seeing 
no  prospect  of  preferment,  consented  to  ac- 
company the  son  of  the  Bishop  of  Clogher  on 
a  tour  through  Europe.  For  over  four  years 
he  continued  his  travels,  arriving  again  in 
London  in  the  year  1721,  in  the  midst  of  the 
miseries  caused  by  the  South  Sea  Scheme. 
Turning  his  mind  to  a  study  of  the  events 
immediately  before  him,  he  wrote  and  pub- 


BISHOP  BERKELEY. 


107 


lished  in  the  same  year  An  Essay  towards 
preventing  the  Ruin  of  Great  Britain,  which 
may  be  found  among  his  Miscellaneous  Tracts. 
Soon  after  his  return  to  England  he  was  in- 
troduced by  Pope  to  Lord  Burlington,  who 
recommended  him  to  the  Duke  of  Grafton. 
The  duke,  being  Lord-Lieutenant  of  Ireland, 
appointed  him  one  of  his  chaplains,  and 
took  him  over  to  Ireland  before  the  end  of 
the  year.  About  this  time  also  he  had  the 
degrees  of  Bachelor  and  Doctor  in  Divinity 
conferred  on  him,  and  in  the  following  year 
he  received  an  unexpected  increase  of  fortune 
by  the  death  of  Miss  Vanhomrigh,  to  whom 
he  had  been  introduced  by  Swift.  In  May, 
1724,  he  at  last  received  the  promotion  he 
deserved  by  being  appointed  to  the  deanery 
of  Derry,  worth  i>1100  per  annum. 

In  1725  Berkeley  published  his  Proposal 
for  Converting  the  Savage  Americans  to  Chris- 
tianity, the  scheme  of  which  seems  to  have 
occupied  his  thoughts  for  several  years.  He 
was  so  persuaded  of  the  wisdom  of  his  plan, 
and  so  enthusiastic  in  seeing  it  carried  out, 
that  he  offered  to  resign  his  preferment  and 
devote  the  remainder  of  his  life  to  teaching 
the  American  youth  on  a  payment  of  £100 
a  year.  In  this  he  was  overruled,  but  he 
proceeded  so  far  as  to  obtain  a  charter  for  a 
college  in  Bermuda,  and  the  promise  of  £10,000 
from  the  ministry  for  the  purchase  of  lands, 
&c.  Furthermore,  in  September,  1728,  amonth 
after  his  marriage  with  the  daughter  of  John 
Forster,  speaker  of  the  Irish  House  of  Com- 
mons, he  actually  set  sail  for  Rhode  Island. 
After  residing  at  Newport  for  a  couple  of 
years  he  saw  that  his  scheme  had  failed, 
chiefly  through  the  coolness  and  hollow- 
heartedness  of  the  ministry,  and,  sick  at  his 
failure,  he  returned  again  to  Ireland. 

In  1732  appeared  one  of  the  most  masterly 
of  Berkeley's  works.  The  Minute  Philosopher. 
In  the  following  year,  1733,  he  was  made 
Bishop  of  Cloyne,  from  which  post  he  was 
afterwards  offered  preferment  at  Clogher, 
but  declined  it. 

In  1735  appeared  his  discourse  called  The 
Analyst,  addressed  as  to  an  infidel  mathema- 
tician, and  his  defence  of  it  under  the  title  of 
A  Defenee  of  Freethinking  in  Mathematics.  In 
the  same  year  also  appeared  Tlie  Querist,  to 
most  modern  readers  a  quaint  production ; 
and  in  1744  the  celebrated  and  curious  work, 
"iSms,  a  Chain  of  Philosophical  Enquiries  and 
Reflections  concerning  the  Virtues  of  Tar 
Water  ".  His  motive  for  producing  this  work 
was  a  benevolent  one.    Finding  great  benefit 


himself  from  the  use  of  tar  water  in  an 
attack  of  nervous  colic,  by  the  publication  of 
its  virtues  he  desii'ed  to  benefit  others,  and 
he  declared  that  the  work  cost  him  more 
time  and  pains  than  any  other  he  had  ever 
been  engaged  in.  A  second  edition  of  it,  with 
additions  and  corrections,  appeared  in  1747, 
and  this  was  followed  in  1752  by  Further 
Thoughts  on  Tar  Water. 

In  July  of  this  year  Berkeley,  with  his 
wife  and  family,  moved  to  Oxford,  drawn 
thither  by  the  facilities  it  possessed  for  study. 
Before  leaving  Cloyne  he  provided  that  out 
of  the  £1000,  which  was  all  his  see  produced 
him,  £200  per  annum  should  during  his  life 
be  distributed  among  the  pfior  householders 
of  Cloyne,  Youghal,  and  Aghadoe.  He  would 
readily  have  given  up  the  bishopric  for  a 
canonry  at  Oxford,  but  this  was  not  per- 
mitted. Soon  after  his  ari'ival  at  Oxford  he 
collected  together  and  published,  in  one  vol- 
ume 8vo,  all  his  smaller  pieces.  This  was 
his  last  work  as  an  author,  for  on  Sunday 
evening,  January  14,  1753,  while  in  the  midst 
of  his  family,  listening  to  a  sermon  being  read 
to  him  by  his  wife,  he  was  seized  with  palsy 
of  the  heart  and  expired  almost  instantly. 
He  was  buried  at  Christ  Church,  Oxford.] 


ON  AMERICA. 

The  Muse,  disgusted  at  an  age  and  clime 

Barren  of  every  glorious  theme, 
In  distant  lands  now  waits  a  better  time 

Producing  subjects  worthy  fame : 

In  happy  climes,  wherefrom  the  genial  sun 
And  virgin  earth  such  scenes  ensue, 

The  force  of  art  by  nature  seems  outdone, 
And  fancied  beauties  by  the  true. 

In  happy  climes,  the  seat  of  innocence, 
Where  nature  guides  and  virtue  rules; 

Where  men  shall  not  impose  for  truth  and  sense 
The  pedantry  of  courts  and  schools; 

There  shall  be  sung  another  golden  age, 

The  rise  of  empire  and  of  arts. 
The  good  and  great  inspiring  epic  rage, 

The  wisest  heads  and  noblest  hearts. 

Not  such  as  Europe  breeds  in  her  decay — 
Such  as  she  bred  when  fresh  and  young, 

When  heavenly  flame  did  animate  her  clay, 
By  future  poets  shall  be  sung. 

Westward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its  way, 

The  four  first  acts  already  past ; 
A  fifth  shall  close  the  drama  with  the  day — 

Time's  noblest  ofifepring  is  the  last. 


108 


LAETITIA  PILKINGTON. 


LAETITIA    PILKINGTON. 

Born  1712— Died  1750. 


[Laetitia  Pilkington,  daughter  of  Dr.  Van 
Lewen  of  Dublin,  was  born  thei^e  in  the  year 
1712.  Very  early  in  life  she  displayed  a  taste 
for  poetry  and  reading  generally,  and  while 
yet  very  young  showed  her  precocity  by  the 
production  of  verses  anything  but  contempt- 
ible. After  rejecting  many  admirers  she  mar- 
ried the  Rev.  Matthew  Pilkington,  a  person 
who  had  some  claim  to  the  title  of  author, 
having  published  a  volume  of  miscellanies 
under  the  care  of  Dean  Swift.  There  is  no 
doubt  the  reverend  gentleman  was  rather  a 
miserable  sort  of  a  fellow,  for  before  they 
were  long  married,  and  before  he  had  any 
cause,  he  began  to  be  jealous  of  his  wife. 
This,  it  seems,  was  not  only  a  jealousy  of  her 
person,  which  perhaps  might  be  excused,  but 
chiefly  an  envious  jealousy  of  her  poetry, 
which  he  could  not  equal.  While  one  of  these 
fits  was  on  him,  in  1732,  he  went  into  Eng- 
land as  chaplain  to  Mr.  Barber,  Lord-mayor 
of  London,  leaving  behind  him  a  young,  and 
lovely,  and  disenchanted  wife  who  had  scarcely 
completed  her  twentieth  year.  In  his  case 
absence  made  his  heart  grow  fonder,  and  after 
a  time  he  wrote  her  a  letter  full  of  kindness, 
in  which  he  praised  her  verses  as  marked  by 
elegance  and  beauty.  He  informed  her  that 
he  had  shown  some  of  them  to  Pope,  who  was 
very  anxious  to  see  her,  and  that  he  himself 
heartily  wished  her  in  London.  Obedient  to 
his  wish  she  went  to  London,  and  was  so  well 
received  that  the  jealousy  returned  upon  him 
strongly,  finally  leading  to  a  complete  rupture 
between  them. 

In  London,  by  the  help  of  CoUey  Gibber, 
she  made  known  her  story,  and  many  friends 
and  great  people  came  to  her  assistance.  How- 
ever, before  long  she  was  thrown  into  the 
Marshalsea ;  but  Cibber,  again  acting  as  a 
friend,  solicited  subscriptions  for  her  and  had 
her  released.  Once  free  and  finding  herself 
possessed  of  five  guineas,  she  determined  to  be 
no  longer  a  beggar,  but  to  employ  her  little 
capital  in  some  business.  Accordingly  she 
took  a  small  shop  in  St.  James's  Street,  and 
stocked  it  with  pamphlets  and  such  things. 
Here  she  continued  some  time,  and  here  she 
produced  some  of  her  best  woik,  until,  by  the 
"  lil)erality  of  her  friends  and  the  bounty  of 
her  subscribers,  slie  was  .set  above  want,  and 


the  autumn  of  her  days  was  like  to  be  spent 
in  peace  ".^  In  this  better  state  of  affairs  she 
moved  to  Dublin ;  but  the  quiet  autumn  which 
she  fondly  looked  forward  to  she  was  not  des- 
tined to  see.  She  died  on  the  29th  of  August, 
1750,  in  the  thirty-ninth  year  of  her  age. 

Mrs.  Pilkington's  principal  works  are  The 
Roman  Father^  a  tragedy  of  considerable 
power;  The  Turkish  Court:  or,  London  Ap- 
prentice, a  comedy;  and  her  Memoirs,  which 
are  written  with  gi'eat  sprightliness  and  wit, 
and  through  which  are  scattered  many  beau- 
tiful little  pieces  written  in  the  true  spirit  of 
poeti'y.  "  Considered  as  a  writer,"  says  the 
work  from  which  we  have  already  quoted, 
"  she  holds  no  mean  rank."] 


MRS.  PILKINGTON'S   PATRONS. 

(from  "memoirs".) 

[Mrs.  Pilkington  was  advised  to  apply  to  a 
Mr.  Meade,  who  had  sixty  thousand  pounds 
left  him  to  distribute  in  charity,  and  as  she 
was  in  great  poverty  she  wrote  him  asking 
assistance.  He  promised  to  assist  her,  but 
apparently  forgot  his  promise.  She  wrote 
him  a  poem,  and  the  result  was  Dr.  Meade 
asked  her  to  call  upon  him  at  his  house.  Her 
visit  there  she  thus  describes.] 

Now  were  my  hopes  high  raised,  high  as 
the  spring-tide,  to  which  the  ebb  quickly  suc- 
ceeds, as  it  did  with  me;  I  fancied,  vainly 
fancied,  at  least  ten  guineas  in  my  pocket, 
and  had,  like  the  man  with  his  basket  of 
glasses,  turned  them  into  trade,  and  purchased 
in  my  mind  an  easy  subsistence  for  life;  but 
I  was  a  little  mistaken  in  the  matter,  as  the 
sequel  will  show.  I  dressed  myself  very 
neatly,  and  waited  on  the  doctor;  when  I 
knocked  at  his  door  a  footman  with  his  mouth 
very  full  and  a  bone  in  his  hand  opened  it, 
and  in  an  Irish  accent  demanded  my  busi- 
ness. I  told  him  I  wanted  to  speak  to  the 
doctor. 

"  By  my  shoul,"  said  he,  "  my  masther  will 
not  be  spoke  to  by  nobody." 

"  Well  then,  friend,  if  you  please  to  let  him 


^Neiv  and  General  Biographical  Dictionary,  15  vols. 
London,  1798. 


LAETITIA  PILKINGTON. 


109 


know  Mrs.  Meade  ^  is  here,  I  believe  he  will 
speak  to  me." 

"  Mishtress  Maide,"  replied  he,  "  arrah,  are 
you  wantiii  charity,  an'  takes  up  my  ma.sther's 
name  to  claim  kin  with  him;  well,  stay  there, 
I'll  tell  him." 

So  he  went  into  a  back  parlour,  but  was  quite 
confounded  when  the  doctor  instantly  came  out 
and  gave  him  a  severe  reprimand  for  letting 
me  stand  in  the  hall ;  and  I  am  very  certain 
had  I  thought  it  worth  my  while  to  acquaint 
the  doctor  with  his  insolence  he  would  have 
been  discharged.  A  proper  caution  to  livery- 
wearing  fellows  to  speak  with  civility  to  every- 
body. 

The  doctor  showed  me  into  a  liandsome 
street  parlour,  adorned  with  several  curiosities, 
of  which  here  needs  no  account.  He  asked 
me  for  Sir  John  Meade,  whom,  because  he 
remembered,  he  expected  I  should,  though 
he  died  two  years  before  I  was  born.  When 
I  told  him  so  he  seemed  displeased.  And 
really  I  remember  that  good  Mr.  Gibber,  in 
his  pleasant  way,  scolded  me  once  for  not 
remembering  King  Charles  the  Second,  though 
my  father  was  born  in  the  reign  of  King 
William. 

As  ray  answers  to  the  doctor  with  relation 
to  the  whole  family  of  the  Meades  were  suf- 
ficient to  convince  him  I  was  not  an  impostor, 
he  asked  me  how  he  could  serve  me.  I  told 
him  I  had  some  poems  to  publish,  but  for 
want  of  a  little  money  to  pay  for  the  printing 
of  them  I  could  not  proceed." 

"  Poems,"  retui-ned  he ;  "  why,  did  you  ever 
know  any  person  get  money  by  poetry?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  several ;  Mr.  Pope  in  parti- 
cular." 

"Oh  Lud,  Lud,"  said  he,  grinning  hor- 
ribly, and  squinting  hideously,  "  what  vanity 
thou  hast !     Can  you  write  like  him?" 

I  was  quite  abashed,  and  really  knew  not 
what  to  say  for  some  moments,  for  my  reader 
may  easily  perceive  I  could  not  but  be  sensible 
I  had  made  a  foolish  speech,  unaware  to  my- 
self; however,  upon  recollection  I  assured 
him  I  did  not  presume  to  put  myself  in  any 
degree  of  comparison  with  so  justly  an  ad- 
mired writer,  but  that  perhaps  on  account  of 
my  sex  I  might  find  a  little  favour. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  there  are  a  couple  of 
guineas  for  you." 

This,  though  far  short  of  my  expectations, 
was  a  little  present  relief,  and  as  the  gentle- 
man was  under  no  obligation  to  reward  or 

1  Tliis  was  Mrs.  I'ilkiugton's  )wm  de  plume. 


encourage  me,  I  very  gratefully  accepted  them, 
and  yet 

"  Proud  was  the  Muse  I  served,  unbred  to  wait 
A  willing  stranger  at  a  great  man's  gate  ! " 

And  here,  gentle  reader,  give  me  leave  to 
tresj)ass  a  moment  on  your  patience  to  make 
one  remark,  which  is,  that,  amongst  all  the 
persons  who  are  celebrated  for  being  chari- 
table, I  never  met  one  really  so ;  and  the  most 
humane  and  beneficent  are  those  whose  char- 
acter have  been  attacked  for  their  humanity, 
so  that  at  last  they  have  even  been  ashamed 
of  well-doing. 

I  remember  Dr.  Swift  told  me  he  saw  a 
beggar  attack  a  bishop,  who  charitably,  from 
his  abundance,  sjiared  him  a  halfpenny,  and 
said,  God  bless  you;  presently  after  he  attacked 
Brigadier  Groves,  who  threw  half-a-crown  to 
him  with  an  oath.  "  Which,"  said  he,  "do  you 
think  the  beggar  prayed  for  at  night?" 

But  as  I  have  mentioned  Dr.  Meade,  who 
was  so  much  in  love  with  Mr.  Pope  for  saying, 

"And  books  for  Meade,  and  rarities  for  Sloane," 

I  think  I  must  give  them  also  a  sketch  of 
Sir  Hans,  to  whom  the  doctor  advised  me 
to  apply  as  an  encourager  of  arts.  I  tra- 
velled down  to  Chelsea  to  wait  upon  him ;  it 
snowed  violently,  insomuch  that  I,  who  had 
only  a  chintz  gown  on,  was  wet  to  the  skin. 
The  porter,  memorandum,  better  bred  than 
his  master,  to  whom  I  had  sent  up  a  com- 
pliment, which  as  he  did  not  deserve  I  shall 
not  do  him  the  honour  to  insert,  invited  me 
into  his  lodge,  where,  after  about  two  hoiu-s' 
attendance,  I  was  at  length  permitted  to  enter 
to  his  supreme  majesty;  but  sure  the  Holy 
Father  himself  in  all  his  pontifical  robes  never 
was  half  so  proud.  I  was  conducted  by  an 
escort  through  six  or  seven  rooms,  one  of  which 
was  entirely  wainscotted,  if  I  may  so  term  it, 
with  china;  but  like  the  idol  to  whom  a  stately 
temple  was  consecrated,  in  which  a  traveller, 
attracted  by  its  outward  magnificence,  thouglit 
to  find  an  adorably  deity,  and  on  search  found 
a  ridiculous  monkey ;  so  I  saw  an  old  fellow, 
whom  I  am  very  well  convinced  never  saw 
me,  for  he  did  not  even  vouchsafe  to  turn  his 
eyes  oflF  a  paper  he  was  writing  to  see  who 
came  in,  till  at  last  a  beggar-woman  entered 
with  a  sore -eyed  child,  the  inside  of  whose 
eyelids  he  very  charitably  tore  out  with  a 
beard  of  corn,  under  which  cruel  operation  the 
girl  fainted,  but  he  said  that  was  good  for  her. 
It  may  be  so,  for  by  two-headed  Janus  nature 
has  framed  strange  doctors  in  her  time.   .    .  . 


no 


LAETITIA   PILKINGTON. 


Of  this  latter  sort  was  Sir  Hans.  Though  I 
had  sent  him  up  a  letter,  which  lay  before 
him,  lie  asked  me  what  T  wanted  !  If  I  had 
bad  eyes  he  said  he  would  brush  them  up  for 
charity ;  but  as  they  happened  to  be  tolerably 
good,  I  excused  myself  by  telling  him  I  had 
brought  him  that  letter;  and  indeed  I  was 
quick -sighted  enough  to  find  out  that  his 
honour  (as  the  beggar-woman  called  him)  was 
a  conceited,  ridiculous,  imperious  old  fool.  He 
then  considered  my  letter  over,  and  finding 
by  the  contents  Dr.  Meade  had  recommended 
me  to  him,  said,  "  Poor  creature !  I  suppose 
you  want  charity.  There  is  half-a-crown  for 
you." 

I  could  hardly  resist  a  strong  inclination 
I  had  to  quoit  it,  as  Falstaff  says,  into  his 
face  like  a  threepenny  shovel-groat ;  and  was 
only  constrained  by  the  consideration  that  I 
had  never  a  shilling  in  my  pocket,  and  that, 
little  as  it  was,  I  could  eat  for  it. 

I  have  here  done  with  the  great  Sir  Hans 
Sloane.     .     .     . 

However,  as  I  was  obliged  to  live  by  my 
wits,  which  indeed  were  almost  at  an  end,  I 
formed   a  scheme   to   write   a   panegyric  on 

P p   Lord   H k,    then  newly   created 

Lord  High-chancellor  of  England.  I  did  not 
address  him  in  the  manner  I  had  done  a 
great  many  of  the  nobility,  that  is  with  my 
own  poem,  which  I  sent  all  round,  like  the 
bishop's  pastoral  letter ;  it  was  as  Swift 
says — 

In  another  reign 
Change  but  the  name  'twill  do  again. 

I  wrote  a  fine  new  one  for  himself,  which 
was  really  paying  him  a  higher  compliment 
than  he  deserved,  as  my  readers  may  perceive 
hereafter.  I  had  completed  the  poem,  and 
sent  it  to  him ;  he  desired  me  to  come  to  him 
on  Sunday,  that  being  his  only  leisure  time. 

Accordingly,  I  waited  on  him  at  eight  o'clock 
on  Sunday  morning ;  the  house  had  rather  the 
appearance  of  desolation  and  poverty  than 
that  of  the  lord-chancellor  of  Britain.  He 
had  complaisance  enough  to  send  his  mace- 
bearer  to  keep  me  company  till  such  time  as 
a  pair  of  folding  doors  flew  open,  and  my  lord 
appeared  in  his  robes  ready  to  go  to  church ; 
he  bowed  down  to  the  ground  to  me,  and 
asked  me  if  I  would  drink  a  dish  of  chocolate 
with  him?  which  you  may  not  doubt  I  ac- 
cepted of ;  and  was  surprised  to  find  myself, 
though  sunk  in  the  most  abject  poverty,  sitting 
with  so  great  a  man. 

So,  for  my  labour  I  got  a  di.sh  of  chocolate, 


which  I  now  return  with  the  utmost  humility 
to  his  lordship  again.^ 


EXPOSTULATION. 

0  God,  since  all  thy  ways  are  just. 
Why  does  thy  heavy  hand 
So  sore  afflict  the  wretched  dust 
Thou  didst  to  life  command? 

Thou  speak'st  the  word,  the  senseless  clay 
Was  quickened  with  thy  breath. 
Cheerless  to  view  the  beams  of  day, 
And  seek  the  shades  of  death. 

Through  every  scene  of  life  distressed, 
As  daughter,  mother,  wife, 
When  wilt  thou  close  my  eyes  in  rest, 
And  take  my  weary  life? 

To  thee  past,  present,  and  to  come 
Are  evermore  the  same; 
Thou  knew'.st  of  all  my  woes  the  sum 
E'er  I  my  thoughts  could  frame. 

'Twas  thou  gav'st  passion  to  my  soul, 
And  reason  also  gave: 
Why  didst  thou  not  make  reason  rule, 
And  passion  be  its  slave? 

0  pardon  me,  thou  Pow'r  Divine, 
That  thus  I  dare  presume 
At  thy  correction  to  repine, 
Or  murmur  at  my  doom. 

Lord,  give  me  penitence  sincere 
For  ev'ry  error  past, 
And  though  my  trials  are  severe, 
0  give  me  peace  at  last ! 


CONTENTMENT. 

I  enA?y  not  the  proud  their  wealth, 
Their  equipage  and  state; 
Give  me  but  innocence  and  health, 
I  ask  not  to  be  great. 

I  in  this  sweet  retirement  find 
A  joy  unknown  to  kings, 
For  sceptres  to  a  virtuous  mind 
Seem  vain  and  empty  things. 


1  The   word  chocolate  was  used    by  Mr.   Foote,   the 
comedian,  for  satire. 


JOHN   BOYLE,   EAEL  OF  CORK. 


Ill 


Great  Cincinnatus  at  his  plough 
With  brighter  lustre  shone 
Than  guilty  Caesar  e'er  could  show, 
Though  seated  on  a  throne. 

Tumultuous  days  and  restless  nights 
Ambition  ever  knows, 
A  stranger  to  the  calm  delights 
Of  study  and  repose. 

Then  free  from  envy,  care,  and  strife, 
Keep  me,  ye  powers  divine, 


And  pleased  when  ye  demand  my  life, 
May  I  that  life  resign. 


WRITTEN   ON   HER  DEATH-BED. 

My  Lord,  my  Saviour,  and  my  God, 
I  bow  to  thy  correcting  rod; 
Nor  will  I  murmur  or  complain 
Though  ev'ry  limb  be  fiU'd  with  pain, 
Though  my  weak  tongue  its  aid  denies, 
And  daylight  wounds  my  wretched  eyes. 


JOHN   BOYLE,    EARL   OF   CORK. 

Born  1707  — Died  1762. 


[John  Boyle,  Earl  of  Cork  and  Orrery,  was 
the  only  son  of  Charles  Boyle,  Earl  of  Orrery, 
and  was  born  on  the  2d  of  January,  1 707.  At 
the  age  of  seven  he  was  placed  in  the  charge 
of  Feuton  the  poet,  with  whom  he  remained 
until  he  was  thirteen  yeare  of  age.  Then  he 
was  sent  to  "Westminster  School,  after  passing 
through  which  he  entered  Christ  Church,  Ox- 
ford. At  the  age  of  twenty-one  he  married 
Lady  Harriet  Hamilton,  a  daughter  of  the 
Earl  of  Orkney.  Soon  afterwards  the  two 
earls  fell  out,  and  Boyle,  siding  with  his  wife's 
father,  exasperated  his  own  parent  so  much, 
that  he  made  a  will  in  which  he  bequeathed 
his  valuable  library  to  the  university.  A 
reconciliation,  however,  took  place  later  on, 
and  the  old  earl  was  about  to  alter  his  will 
when  he  was  stopped  by  death. 

In  1732  Boyle  took  his  seat  in  the  House  of 
Peers,  where  he  distinguished  himself  by  his 
opposition  to  Walpole.  In  the  same  year  he 
went  to  live  in  Ireland,  and  there  became 
acquainted  with  Swift.  There  also  his  wife 
died,  and  in  1733  he  returned  to  England 
and  took  up  his  abode  at  an  old  family  seat 
near  Marston  in  Somersetshire.  Here  he 
amused  himself  in  building,  gardening,  plant- 
ing, and  getting  into  shape  his  edition  of  the 
dramatic  works  of  his  grandfather  Roger 
Boyle,  and  collecting  and  arranging  his  State 
Letters. 

In  1738  he  went  to  live  in  a  house  in  Duke 
Street,  Westminster,  and  in  June  of  the  same 
year  he  married  Margaret  Hamilton,  an  Irish 
lady,  "  in  whom  the  loss  of  his  former  countess 
was  repaired."  In  1739  he  produced  his  edition 
of  Roger  Boyle's  dramatic  works  in  two  vols. 


8vo,  and  in  1742  his  State  Letters.  In  1746 
he  went  to  reside  with  his  father-in-law  at  Cale- 
don  in  Ireland,  and  there  passed  four  happy 
years.  In  1751  ap])eared  his  translation  of 
Pliny's  Letters,  with  observations  on  each 
letter,  and  an  essay  on  Pliny's  life.  This  ran 
through  several  editions  in  a  few  years.  Its 
success,  no  doubt,  caused  him  to  hurry  the 
preparation  of  his  Remarks  07i  the  Life  and 
Writings  of  Swift,  which  was  also  very  suc- 
cessful. In  December,  1753,  he  succeeded 
to  the  title  of  Earl  of  Cork,  and  in  September, 
1754,  he  and  his  family  entered  upon  a  tour 
to  Italy.  In  Florence  he  resided  nearly  a 
year,  during  which  he  busied  himself  in  col- 
lecting materials  for  a  history  of  Tuscany. 
This  he  intended  to  write  in  the  form  of  a 
series  of  letters,  but  he  lived  to  write  only 
twelve,  which  appeared  after  his  death.  In 
1758  he  lost  his  second  wife,  and  in  1759  his 
eldest  son.  These  events  atTected  him  deeply 
and  hurried  him  towards  his  end,  which  hap- 
pened on  the  16th  November,  1762,  in  the 
fifty-sixth  year  of  his  age. 

In  addition  to  the  works  already  mentioned 
Boyle  wrote  Letters  from  Italy,  which  were 
published  in  1774,  and  Memoirs  of  Robert  Cary, 
Earl  of  Monmouth,  1759.  He  also  conti-ibuted 
several  papers  to  The  World  and  Connoisserir. 
The  work  by  which  he  is  best  \iT\ov>'n,  Remarks 
on  the  Life  of  Swift, \s  his  worst  from  a  literary 
point  of  view.  It  is  weak,  loose,  and  blunder- 
ing in  point  of  style,  full  of  errors  of  taste  and 
of  fact,  and  marked  all  through  l)y  proofs  that 
the  author  was  "willing  to  wound,  and  yet 
afraid  to  strike."  His  translation  of  Pliny  is 
not  without  merit,  and  his  history  of  Tuscany, 


112 


JOHN   BOYLE,    EARL  OF  CORK. 


had  he  lived  to  finish  it  as  begun,  would  have 
given  him  legitimate  claims  to  a  fair  position 
among  successful  historians.  His  contribu- 
tions to  The  World  and  The  Connoisseur  are 
read  by  those  who  still  cling  to  that  class  of 
literature,  and  some  of  them  are  not  without 
humour  of  a  kind  which  no  doubt  was  ap- 
proved of  in  their  time.] 


MRS.    MUZZY   ON    DUELLING.^ 

As  my  grandfather,  Sir  Josiah  Pumpkin, 
had  made  a  considerable  figure  in  King 
Charles's  court,  his  only  son  Ralph,  my  hon- 
oured father,  was  no  less  conspicuous  for  his 
valour  towards  the  latter  end  of  King  William's 
reign.  Although  the  race  of  kings  was  changed, 
the  laws  of  honour  still  remained  the  same. 
But  my  grandfather  had  retired  with  his 
family  to  Pumpkin  Hall  about  a  year  and  a 
half  before  the  Revolution,  much  discontented 
with  the  times,  and  often  wishing  that  Judge 
Somebody,  I  forget  his  name,  had  been  a 
militia  colonel,  that  he  might  have  run  him 
through  the  body,  or  have  cut  off"  one  of  his 
cheeks  with  a  broadsword.  In  the  same 
strain  he  often  wished  Father  Peters  a  Life- 
guard-man, that  he  might  have  caned  him 
before  the  court-gate  of  Whitehall.  .  .  .  My 
grandmother.  Lady  Pumpkin,  was  a  prudent 
woman,  and,  not  without  some  difficulty,  per- 
suaded Sir  Josiah  to  content  himself  with 
drinking  constant  bumpers  to  "prosperity  to 
the  church  and  state",  without  fighting  duels 
or  breaking  heads  in  defence  of  the  British 
constitution.  Indeed,  he  might  well  be  con- 
tent with  the  glory  he  had  obtained,  having 
been  once  shot  through  the  leg,  and  carrying 
the  marks  of  seven-and-twenty  wounds  in 
difi"erent  parts  of  his  body,  all  boldly  acquired 
by  single  combats,  in  defence  of  nominal  lib- 
erty and  real  loyalty  during  King  Charles 
tlie  Second's  reign. 

My  father  was  returned  for  a  borough  in 
Wales  in  the  second  parliament  of  King 
William.  This  drew  him  every  winter  to 
London,  and  he  never  took  his  leave  of  Sir 
Josiah  without  receiving  a  strict  command  to 
do  some  brave  act  becoming  a  man  of  honour 
and  a  Pumpkin.  As  he  was  remarkably  an 
obedient  son,  and  indeed  as  we  were  all,  not 
only  as  Pumpkins,  but  as  old  Britons,  very 
choleric  and  fiery,  my  father  scarce  ever  re- 
turned home  without  some  glorious  achieve- 

1  From  Number  47  of  The  World,  November  22,  1753. 


ment,  the  heroism  of  which  generally  reached 
Pumpkin  Hall  before  the  hero.  Of  his  several 
exploits  give  me  leave  only  to  mention  three  ; 
not  so  much  in  regard  to  his  honour,  as  that 
they  carry  in  them  some  particular  and  re- 
markable circumstances. 

There  was  an  intimacy  between  my  father 
and  Major  John  Davis  of  the  Foot-guards. 
Their  first  acquaintance  and  friendship  had 
begun  when  the  major  was  quartered  at  a 
market-town  near  Pumpkin  Hall.  Their  re- 
gards had  continued  towards  each  other  with 
the  greatest  strictness  for  several  years ;  when 
one  day  at  dinner  with  a  large  company  at  a 
tavern  my  father  jocularly  in  discourse  said, 
"Ah,  Major !  Major !  you  still  love  to  ride  the 
fore-horse,"  alluding  to  his  desire  of  being  fore- 
most in  all  parties  of  pleasure.  Major  Davis 
immediately  changed  colour,  and  took  the  ear- 
liest opportunity  of  calling  Mr.  Pumpkin  aside 
and  demanding  satisfaction.  My  father  asked 
for  what?  The  major  made  no  reply  but  by 
drawing  his  swoi'd.  They  fought,  and  the 
major  was  soon  disarmed.  "Now,  Jack,"  says 
my  father,  "pray  tell  me  what  we  fought  for?" 
"Ah !  Ralph,"  replied  the  major,  "why  did  you 
reproach  me  with  having  been  a  postilion  ?  It 
is  true  I  was  one,  but  by  what  means  did  you 
know  it?  why  would  you  hint  it  to  the  com- 
pany by  saying  that  I  still  loved  to  ride  the 
fore-horse  ? "  My  father  protested  his  ignor- 
ance of  th  e  fact,  and  consequently  his  innocence 
of  intending  any  affront.  The  two  friends 
were  immediately  reunited  as  strongly  as  be- 
fore ;  and  the  major  ever  afterwards  was  par- 
ticularly cautious  how  he  discovered  his  origin, 
or  blindly  followed  the  folly  of  his  own  sus- 
picions. 

One  of  my  father's  tavern  companions, 
Captain  Shadow,  who  was  very  young,  very 
giddy,  and  almost  as  weak  in  body  as  in  mind, 
challenged  him  on  a  supposed  aflfront,  in  not 
receiving  the  return  of  a  bow  which  he  had 
made  to  my  father  in  the  playhouse.  They 
were  to  fight  in  Hyde  Park  ;  but  as  the  captain 
was  drawing  his  sword  with  the  fiercest  indig- 
nation, it  luckily  occurred  to  his  thoughts  that 
the  provocation  might  possibly  be  undesigned, 
or  if  otherwise,  that  the  revenge  he  had  medi- 
tated was  of  too  cruel  and  bloody  a  nature ;  he 
therefore  begged  pardon  of  his  adversary  and 
made  up  the  afi'air. 

I  wish  this  had  been  the  last  of  my  father's 
combats,  but  he  was  unhappily  engaged  in  a 
duel  with  a  French  officer  who  had  taken  the 
wall  of  him  ;  and  in  that  duel  he  received  a 
wound,  which  after  throwing   him   several 


JOHN   MACDONNELL. 


113 


months  intoa languishing miserablecondition, 
at  last  proved  fatal  by  ending  in  a  mortifica- 
tion. He  bore  his  long  illness  with  amazing 
fortitude ;  but  often  expressed  an  abhorrence 


of  these  polite  and  honourable  murders  and 
wished  that  he  might  have  lived  some  years 
longer  only  to  have  shown  that  he  durst  not 
fiffht. 


JOHN    MACDONNELL. 


Born  1691  —  Died  1754. 


[John  MacDounell,  one  of  the  most  eminent 
of  our  later  Irish  bards,  was  born  near  Charle- 
ville,  in  the  county  of  Cork,  in  the  year  1691. 
He  has  generally  been  called  MacDonnell 
Claragh,  from  Claragh  the  name  of  the  resid- 
ence of  his  family.  O'Halloran  in  his  History 
of  Ireland  speaks  of  him  as  "a  man  of  great 
erudition,  and  a  profound  Irish  antiquarian 
and  poet,"  and  says  that  he  "had  made 
valuable  collections,  and  wsis  writing  in  his 
native  tongue  a  History  of  Ireland,"  which  fail- 
ing health,  however,  prevented  him  completing. 
He  also  proposed  translating  Homer's  Riad 
into  Irish,  and  had  at  least  proceeded  so  far  as 
to  produce  several  highly  praised  specimens  of 
what  his  work  would  be.  But  this,  as  well  as 
the  History  of  Ireland,  was  put  a  stop  to  by 
his  illness  and  death,  and  MacDonnell's  fame 
must  now  rest  on  his  poems  alone.  He  died 
in  the  year  1754,  and  was  interred  in  the 
churchyard  of  Ballyslough,  near  Charleville. 

Hardiman,  in  speaking  of  MacDonnell, 
gives  him  a  very  high  place  as  a  genius  and  a 
poet.  Indeed,  he  ranks  him  in  Irish  as 
equal  to  Pope  in  English,  and  believes  that 
had  he  lived  to  complete  his  ti-auslation  of  the 
Iliad  it  would  have  been  as  successful  in  a 
literary  sense  as  was  that  of  Pope.  "  If,"  he 
continues,  "  the  latter  had  been  an  Irishman, 
and  had  written  in  the  language  of  the  country, 
it  would  be  a  matter  of  difficulty  to  determine 
which  would  be  entitled  to  the  prize.  But 
fortunately  for  his  genius  and  fame  Pope  was 
born  on  the  right  side  of  the  Channel."  Fur- 
thermore, he  tells  us  that  the  following  descrip- 
tion of  a  hei'o  is  in  the  original  Irish  no  way 
inferior  to  any  passage  in  the  Iliad: — 

To  crush  the  strong — the  resolute  to  quell — 
Daun  sweeps  the  battlefield,  a  deadly  spell 


1  This  ballad  celebrates  a  real  historical  scene,  the  visit 
of  the  famous  Grace  O'Malley  to  Queen  Elizabeth.  In 
the  Anthologia  Hibernica  the  visit  is  thus  described:— 
"The  queen,  surrounded  by  her  ladies,  received  her  in 
great  state.  Grana  was  introduced  in  the  dress  of  her 
country :  a  long  uncouth  mantle  covered  her  head  and 
Vol.  I. 


Begirt  with  hosts,  a  terrible  aiTay, 

Blood  paints  his  track,  and  havock  strews  his  way — 

The  lion's  courage  and  the  lightning's  speed 

His  might  combines  :  from  each  adventurous  deed 

With  haughtier  swell  dilates  the  conqueror's  soul. 

Like  volum'd  thunders  deep'ning  as  they  roll : 

Bards  from  his  prowess  learn  a  loftier  song, 

And  glory  lights  him  through  the  ranks  along. 

MacDonnell  was,  it  seems,  a  "  rank  Jaco- 
bite "  in  politics,  and  poet  and  genius  though 
he  was,  had  often  by  hasty  flights  to  save  his 
life  from  the  hands  of  the  "hunters  of  the 
bards."] 


GRANU   WAIL   AND   QUEEN 
ELIZABETH.' 

Mild  as  the  rose  its  sweets  will  breathe, 
Tho'  gems  all  bright  its  bloom  en  wreathe; 
Undeck'd  by  gold  or  diamond  rare, 
Near  Albion's  throne  stood  Grana  fair. 

The  vestal  queen  in  wonder  view'd 
The  hand  that  grasp'd  the  falchion  rude — 
The  azure  eye,  whose  light  could  prove 
The  equal  power  in  war  or  love. 

"Some  boon,"  she  cried,  "thou  lady  brave, 
From  Albion's  queen  in  pity  crave: 
E'en  name  the  rank  of  countess  high, 
Nor  fear  the  suit  I'll  e'er  deny." 

"Nay,  sister-queen,"  the  fair  replied, 
"A  sov'reign,  and  an  hero's  bride; 
No  fate  shall  e'er  of  pride  bereave — 
I'll  honours  give,  but  none  receive. 

"  But  grant  to  him — who.se  infant  sleep 
Is  lull'd  by  rocking  o'er  the  deep — 


body ;  her  hair  was  gathered  on  her  crown,  and  fastened 
with  a  bodkin  ;  her  breast  was  bare,  and  she  had  a  yellow 
bodice  and  petticoat.  The  court  stared  with  surprise  .at 
so  strange  a  figure."— "  Granu  Wail"  or  "Grana  Tile" 
was  one  of  the  typical  names  of  Ireland,  and,  as  Lover 
remarks,  the  mere  playing  of  the  air  with  that  name  has 
still  a  poUtical  significance. 

S 


114 


JOHN   MACDONNELL. 


Those  gifts,  which  now  for  Erin's  sake 
Thro'  pride  of  soul  I  dare  not  take." 

The  queen  on  Grana  gazed  and  smil'd, 
And  honour'd  soon  the  stranger  child 
With  titles  brave,  to  grace  a  name 
Of  Erin's  isle  in  herald  fame. 


CLARAGH'S   LAMENT. 

(FROM  HARDIMAN'S   "IRISH  MINSTRELSY.") 

The  tears  are  ever  in  my  wasted  eye, 
My  heart  is  crushed,  and  my  thoughts  are  sad; 
For  the  son  of  chivalry  was  forced  to  fly, 
And  no  tidings  come  from  the  soldier  lad. 

Chorus. — My  heart  it  danced  when  he  was  near. 
My  hero!  my  Caesar!  my  Chevalier! 
But  while  he  wanders  o'er  the  sea 
Joy  can  never  be  joy  to  me. 

Silent  and  sad  pines  the  lone  cuckoo, 
Our  chieftains  hang  o'er  the  grave  of  joy; 
Their  tears  fall  heavy  as  the  .summer's  dew 
For  the  lord  of  their  hearts — the  banished  boy. 

Mute  are  the  minstrels  that  sang  of  him. 
The  harp  forgets  its  thrilling  tone; 
The  brightest  eyes  of  the  land  are  dim, 
For  the  pride  of  their  aching  sight  is  gone. 

The  sun  refused  to  lend  his  light. 
And  clouds  obscured  the  face  of  day; 
The  tiger's  whelps  preyed  day  and  night. 
For  the  lion  of  the  forest  was  far  away. 

The  gallant,  graceful,  young  Chevalier, 
Whose  look  is  bonny  as  his  heart  is  gay; 
His  sword  in  battle  flashes  death  and  fear, 
While  he  hews  through  falling  foes  his  way. 

O'er  his  blushing  cheeks  his  blue  eyes  shine 
Like  dewdrops  glitt'ring  on  the  rose's  leaf; 
Mars  and  Cupid  all  in  him  combine, 
The  blooming  lover  and  the  godlike  chief. 

His  curling  locks  in  wavy  grace. 
Like  beams  on  youthful  Phoebus'  brow, 
Flit  wild  and  golden  o'er  his  speaking  face, 
And  down  his  ivory  shoulders  flow. 

Like  Engus  is  he  in  his  youthful  days, 
Or  Mac  Cein,  whose  deeds  all  Erin  knows, 
Mac  Dary's  chiefs,  of  deathless  praise, 
Who  hung  like  fate  on  their  routed  foes. 

Like  Connall  the  besieger,  pride  of  his  race. 
Or  Fergus,  son  of  a  glorious  sire, 


Or  blameless  Connor,  son  of  courteous  Nais, 
The  chief  of  the  Red  Branch — Lord  of  the  Lyre. 

The  cuckoo's  voice  is  not  heard  on  the  gale. 
Nor  the  cry  of  the  hounds  in  the  nutty  grove. 
Nor  the  hunter's  cheering  through  the  dewy  vale, 
Since  far — far  away  is  the  youth  of  our  love. 

The  name  of  my  darling  none  must  declare. 
Though  his  fame  be  like  sun.shine  from  shore  to 

shore; 
But,  oh,  may  Heaven — Heaven  hear  my  prayer! 
And  waft  the  hero  to  my  arms  once  more. 

Chorus. — My  heart — it  danced  when  he  was  near, 
Ah!  now  my  woe  is  the  young  Chevalier; 
'Tis  a  pang  that  solace  ne'er  can  know. 
That  he  should  be  banish'd  by  a  rightles* 
foe. 


OLD   ERIN   IN   THE    SEA 

(TRANSLATED   BY   W.  B.  GUINEE,   OF  BUTTETANT.) 

Who  sitteth  cold,  a  beggar  old 

Before  the  prosperous  lands. 
With  outstretched  palms  that  asketh  alms 

From  charitable  hands? 
Feeble  and  lone  she  maketh  moan — 

A  stricken  one  is  she, 
That  deep  and  long  hath  suffered  wrong, 

Old  Erin  in  the  sea! 

How  art  thou  lost,  how  hardly  crost. 

Land  of  the  reverend  head ! 
And,  dismal  Fate,  how  harsh  thy  hate 

That  gives  her  lack  of  bread  ! 
Though  broad  her  fields,  and  rich  their  yields, 

From  Liflfey  to  the  Lee, 
Her  grain  but  grows  to  flesh  the  foes 

Of  Erin  in  the  sea! 

'Tis  but  the  ban  of  ruthless  man 

That  works  thy  wretchedness; 
What  Nature  bears  with  thee  she  shares. 

And  genial  .seasons  bless. 
The  very  waves  that  kiss  the  caves 

Clap  their  huge  hands  for  glee. 
That  they  should  guard  so  fair  a  sward 

As  Erin  by  the  sea ! 

Her  vales  are  green,  her  gales  serene. 

Hard  granite  ribs  her  coast, 
God's  fairest  smile  is  on  the  isle, 

Alas!  and  bootless  boast; 
No  land  more  curst  hath  Ocean  nurst 

Since  first  a  wave  had  he; 
No  land  whose  grief  had  less  relief 

Than  Erin  in  the  sea! 


JOHN   I^IAODONNELL. 


115 


Can  this  be  she  whose  history 

Is  in  the  mist  of  years, 
Whose  kings  of  old  wore  crowns  of  gold, 

And  led  ten  thousand  spears? 
!Not  so  I  wis;  no  land  like  this 

Could  know  such  bravery, 
Or  change  is  wrought,  or  lore  is  nought 

For  Erin  in  the  sea! 

Ah!  truly  change  most  sad  and  strange — 

Her  kings  have  passed  away; 
Her  sons,  the  same  in  outward  frame, 

Full  false  and  tame  are  they — 
Each  hating  each,  alone  they  teach. 

And  but  in  this  agree: 
To  work  thy  pains,  and  bind  thy  chains, 

l»ld  Erin  in  the  sea! 

\Vliere  are  the  men,  by  tower  and  glen, 

Who  held  thee  safe  of  yore? 
Full  oft  that  gave  their  foes  a  grave 

On  thine  insulted  shore. 
Galglach  and  Kerne,  full  sure  and  stern. 

They  did  good  fight  for  thee; 
Alas!  they  sleep,  and  thou  must  weep, 

Old  Erin  in  the  sea! 

Soft  may  they  rest  within  her  breast, 

That  for  their  country  died; 
And  where  they  lie  may  peace  be  nigh, 

And  lasting  love  abide! 
Ye  grace  them  well;  for  them  that  fell 

And  her  that  nourished  ye. 
For  them  ye  bled,  she  holds  ye  dead — 

Old  Erin  of  the  sea! 

And  in  your  place  a  wretched  race 

Upon  the  soil  have  grown, 
Unfearing  shame,  and  in  the  name 

Like  to  their  sires  alone. 
They  shun  the  claim  of  patriot  fame, 

And  cringe  the  servile  knee 
To  kiss  the  yoke  their  fathers  broke 

In  Erin  in  the  sea! 

Would  they  unite  in  valorous  fight 

For  her  that  gave  them  breath, 
As  they  for  her — the  conqueror. 

Whose  direful  touch  is  death. 
No  more  the  blight  of  traitorous  might 

On  sacred  right  should  be, 
I'ut  peace,  delight,  and  strength  bedight 

Old  Erin  in  the  sea! 

I'illage  and  pest  her  vales  infest, 
Strange  tongues  her  name  revile; 

Where  prayed  her  saints,  false  doctrine  taints, 
And  godless  rites  defile. 

Be  they  reviled,  be  they  defiled, 
More  dear  are  they  to  me — 


The  verdant  plains,  the  holy  fanes, 
Of  Erin  in  the  sea! 

Thine  is  the  page,  all  rimed  with  age, 

In  mighty  deeds  sublime — 
The  proud  records  of  willing  swords. 

And  storied  lays  of  time; 
An  empire  thou,  while  she  that  now, 

liy  Heaven's  harsh  decree, 
Holds  thee  disgraced,  was  wild  and  waste. 

Old  Erin  in  the  sea! 

Would  this  were  all !  Not  thine  the  fall 

By  force  and  battle  rush. 
Not  men  more  brave  hold  thee  for  slave, 

Nor  stouter  hearts  that  crush; 
But  vengeful  ire  of  son  with  sire, 

Thy  children's  perfidy — 
Theirs  is  the  strife  that  slays  thy  life, 

Old  Erin  in  the  sea! 

Ye  bards  of  song,  ye  warriors  strong ! 

Of  high  heroic  deeds, — 
All  dust  are  ye,  by  mount  and  lea, 

While  she,  your  mother,  bleeds. 
And  cold  the  blood,  by  fort  and  flood, 

That  ran  in  veins  as  free 
As  she  was  then,  when  ye  were  men, 

Old  Erin  in  the  sea! 


CLARAGH'S   DREAM. 

(TRANSLATED    BY   J.    C.    MANGAN. ) 

I  lay  in  unrests— old  thoughts  of  pain, 

That  I  struggled  in  vain  to  smother, 
Like  midnight  spectres  haunted  my  brain — 

Dark  fiintasies  chased  each  other, 
When  lo!  a  figure — who  might  it  be? 

A  tall,  fair  figure  stood  near  me! 
Who  might  it  be?     An  unreal  Banshee? 

Or  an  angel  sent  to  cheer  me? 

Though  years  have  rolled  since  then,  yet  now 

Jly  memory  thrillingly  lingers 
On  her  awful  charms,  her  waxen  brow. 

Her  pale  translucent  fingers; — 
Her  eyes,  that  mirrored  a  wonder  world, 

Her  mien,  of  unearthly  wildness; 
And  her  waving  raven  tresses  that  curled 

To  the  ground  in  beautiful  wildness. 

"Whence  comest   thou.   Spirit?"  I  asked   me- 
th ought; 

"Thou  art  not  one  of  the  banished?" 
Alas,  for  me!  she  answered  nought, 

But  rose  aloft  and  vanished; 
And  a  radiance,  like  to  a  glory,  beamed 

In  the  light  she  left  behind  her; 
Long  time  I  wept,  and  at  last  me-dreamed 

I  left  my  shieling  to  find  her. 


116 


CHARLES   MOLLOY. 


And  first  I  turned  to  the  thund'rous  north, 

To  Gruagach's  mansion  kingly; 
Untouching  the  earth,  I  then  sped  fortli 

To  Inver-lough,  and  the  shingly 
And  shining  strand  of  the  fishful  Erne, 

And  thence  to  Croghan  the  golden, 
Of  whose  resplendent  palace  ye  learn 

So  many  a  marvel  olden ! 

I  saw  the  ilourna's  billows  flow — 

I  passed  the  walls  of  Shenady, 
And  stood  in  the  hero-thronged  Ardroe, 

Embossed  amid  greenwoods  shady; 
And  visited  that  proud  pile  that  stands 

Above  the  Boyne's  broad  waters. 
Where  iEngus  dwells  with  his  warrior  bands 

And  the  fairest  of  Ulster's  daughters ; 

To  the  halls  of  Mac-Lir,  to  Creevroe's  height, 

To  Tara,  the  glory  of  Erin, 
To  the  fairy  palace  that  glances  bright 

On  the  peak  of  the  blue  Cnocfeerin, 
I  vainly  hied.      I  went  west  and  east — 

I  travelled  seaward  and  shoreward — 
But  thus  was  I  greeted  in  field  and  at  feast — 

"Thy  way  lies  onward  and  forward!" 

At  last  I  reached,  I  wist  not  how, 

The  royal  towers  of  Ival, 
Which  under  the  cliffs  gigantic  brow 

Still  rise  without  a  rival. 


And  here  were  Thomond's  chieftains  all, 
AVith  armour,  and  swords,  and  lances, 

And  here  sweet  music  filled  the  hall, 
And  damsels  charmed  with  dances. 

And  here,  at  length,  on  a  silvery  throne 

Half  seated,  half  reclining, 
W^ith  forehead  white  as  the  marble  stone. 

And  garments  so  starrily  shining, 
And  features  beyond  the  poet's  pen — 

The  sweetest,  saddest  features — 
Appeared  before  me  once  again 

That  fairest  of  living  creatures! 

"Draw  near,  O  mortal !"  she  said  with  a  sigh, 

"And  hear  my  mournful  story; 
The  guardian  spirit  of  Erin  am  I, 

But  dimmed  is  mine  ancient  glory. 
My  priests  are  banished,  my  warriors  wear 

No  longer  victory's  garland; 
And  my  child,  my  son,  my  beloved  heir 

Is  an  exile  in  a  for  land !" 

I  heard  no  more — I  saw  no  more — 

The  bands  of  slumber  were  broken. 
And  palace,  and  hero,  and  river,  and  shore, 

Had  vanished  and  left  no  token. 
Dissolved  was  the  spell  that  had  bound  my  will 

And  my  fancy  thus  for  a  season; 
But  a  sorrow,  therefore,  hangs  over  me  still. 

Despite  of  the  teachings  of  reason ! 


CHARLES    MOLLOl: 


Born  1706  — Died  1767. 


[Charles  MoUoy  was  born  in  Dublin  in  the 
year  1706,  his  father  and  mother  being  both  de- 
scendants of  good  families.  He  was  educated  at 
Trinity  College,  of  which  he  ultimately  became 
a  fellow.  Soon  after  passing  out  of  his  teens 
he  moved  to  England  and  entered  himself  at 
the  Middle  Temple.  There,  before  long,  he 
began  to  mix  in  literary  matters,  and  contri- 
buted largely  to  a  ])eriodical  paper  entitled 
Fog^s  Journal.  He  also  became  a  play-writer, 
and  in  1715  produced  The  Perplexed  Couple, 
which,  as  a  first  attempt,  w;vs  fairly  successful. 
This  was  followed  in  1718  by  Tke  Cojwe^,  and 
this  again  in  1720  by  Half-pay  Officers. 

After  this  he  became  sole  e.ditor,  and 
almost  sole  author,  of  the  well-known  perio- 
dical paper  called  Common  Sense,  the  only 
other  writers  of  imi)Drtance  being  Dr.  King, 
Lord  Chesterfield,  and  Lord  Lyttleton.  His 
papers   "give   testimony   of   strong   abilities, 


great  depth  of  understanding,  and  clearness  of 
reasoning."  About  this  time  large  oilers  were 
made  to  him  to  write  in  defence  of  Sir  Robert 
Walpole,  which  he  refused ;  but  when  Walpole's 
opponents  came  into  otfice  in  1742,  he  was 
entirely  neglected  and  overlooked,  and  were  it 
not  that  he  had  married  a  rich  wife,  he  might 
have  starved  so  far  as  those  whom  he  had 
benefited  were  concerned.  As  it  was,  however, 
he  could  afford  to  laugh  at  their  ingratitude 
and  treat  their  patriotic  mouthings  with  con- 
tempt. For  many  years  after  this  he  lived 
without  taking  any  active  part  in  either  liter- 
ary or  political  matters.  His  death  took  place 
on  the  IGtli  July,  1767. 

This  author  must  not  be  confounded  with 
iiis  namesake  Cliarles  Molloy,  who  was  also 
born  in  Ireland,  and  was  ;)  lawyer  of  the  Inner 
Temple.  He  wrote  a  standard  Ijotin  work, 
De  Jure  Maritimo  et  NavaH,  or  a  Treatise  on 


CHARLES   MOLLOY. 


117 


Maritime  Law.  He  was  born  in  1640,  an<l 
died  in  KJyo,  sixteen  years  before  our  authui- 
aiid  dramatist  was  born.] 


MISER  AND  MAID. 

(FROM    "THK   PERPLKXED  COUPLE.") 

[Leonora,  advised  by  lier  maid  Isabella, 
manages  to  disgust  by  her  apparent  affectation 
the  miser  her  father  wishes  her  to  marry.] 

Leon.  My  father  on  a  sudden  grew  cold  in 
his  behaviour  towards  Octavio,  and  at  length 
forbid  me  to  see  him  more;  in  the  meantime  a 
business  of  importance  calls  Octavio  into  the 
country,  and  now  I  find  my  father  ha,s  been 
upon  a  treaty  with  this  usurer,  and  'tis  that 
has  induced  him  to  forfeit  his  word  and  honour. 

Isab.  A  very  Jewish  reason  truly. 

Leon.  What  shall  I  do  to  kindle  compassion 
in  a  l)reast  possessed  by  avarice,  a  stranger  to 
all  social  virtues?  I've  nothing  to  oppose  to 
his  cruelty  but  tears,  the  defenceless  arms  of 
innocence  oppress'd. 

Isab.  Defenceless,  indeed  !  besides,  madam, 
they  spoil  the  complexion — but  you'll  find 
'twill  do  more  service  to  cross  the  old  feUow 
that  he  mayn't  fall  in  love  too  fast. 

Leon.  I  shall  think  myself  happy  if  I  can 
but  create  in  him  an  aversion  to  my  person, 
for  I  resolve  to  give  myself  as  many  airs  to 
make  him  hate  me,  as  ever  vain  coquet  did  to 
gain  a  lover. 

Isab.  Here  they  come. 

Morecraft  {her  father,  aside  to  Leonora). — 
Here's  my  friend,  I  met  him  just  at  the  door; 
now  stiind  upon  your  guard  and  gild  your  face 
with  a  smile. 

Isab.  What  have  we  here!  A  mummy 
wrapt  up  in  flannel  ? 

Morec.  Come,  old  boy,  this  is  your  wife  that 
is  to  be;  here's  flesh  and  blood  for  ye,  the 
blood  of  the  Morecrafts.  Here's  vermilion 
and  roses  enough  to  raise  desire  in  fourscore 
and  ten,  a  better  receipt  to  restore  youth  than 
Medea's  kettle. 

Sterling.  Neighbour,  you  need  not  take  such 
pains  to  set  off  your  ware,  I  see  what  the  young 
woman  is. 

Morec.  Attack  her  briskly,  impudently,  man. 
Impudence  never  fails  of  success  with  women; 
it  passes  for  wit,  humour,  nay  and  courage 
too,  in  young  fellows,  and  why  not  in  old  ? 

Sterl.  What  I  shall  do — I  shall  do  without 
your  help. 


Morec.  Ha!  hal^Say'st  thou  so,  old  Fru- 
gality; od,  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  can  do  with- 
(jut  help.  I  believe  you're  gi-own  young  again; 
well,  since  you're  so  stout  upon't,  I  shall  leave 
you  to  make  the  most  of  your  time,  for  fathera 
do  but  spoil  company  among  young  lovers. 

\^Exit  Morecraft  and  Isabella. 

Sterl.  You  see,  young  lady,  I  come  by  the 
encouragement  of  a  fatlier,  which  I  take  to 
be  the  honestest  pretence  a  man  can  make  to 
a  lady's  affections. 

Leon.  O  liideous !  what  a  strange  opinion 
that  is,  I  think  it  the  worst  pretence.  'Tis 
beginning  where  one  should  end  ;  'tis  the  last 
thing  to  be  considered. 

Sterl.  Assuredly,  according  to  all  laws,  a 
parent  has  a  right  to  dispose  of  his  child. 

Leon.  What,  would  you  confine  love  to  laws  ? 
He  that  comes  upon  that  presumption,  and 
brings  no  pretensions  of  his  own,  is  to  me  no 
better  than  a  ravisher. 

Sterl.  Assuredly,  a  man  of  good  sense  and 
good  estate  can't  want  pretensions. 

Leon.  O  abominable !  what  a  mechanic 
notion  is  that !  What  woman  of  any  fciste 
could  endure  an  odious  creature  that  had  not 
one  good  quality  to  recommend  him  but  good 
sense  and  a  good  estate ! 

Sterl.  Pray,  lady,  what  qualifications  would 
you  expect  in  a  husband  ? 

Leon.  A  thousand,  a  thousand,  sir.  I'll  give 
you  a  short  detail  of  'em.  Now  for  the  first 
broadside.  {Aside.)  Why,  there's  the  de- 
licatess  d'esprit,  the  belle  air,  and  a  certain 
jene  sais  quoi  of  mien  and  motion.  There's 
something  in  it  so  elegantly  genteel,  so  amor- 
ously inspiring,  that  may  be  better  understood 
than  expressed. 

Sterl.  I  don't  understand  you,  I  never  heard 
of  such  strange  things  before. 

Leon.  Then  you  must  give  me  leave  to  in- 
struct you. 

Sterl.  Really,  young  woman,  I'm  too  old  to 
be  taught,  and  too  wise  to  stoop  to  such 
follies. 

Leon.  I  see  then  how  it  is,  your  purpose  is 
to  engage  my  innocent,  unwary  heart,  on  pur- 
pose to  betray  it.  Unhappy  as  I  am,  what  has 
love  brought  me  to  !  {Seems  to  u-eep. 

Sterl.  Poor  innocent  creature,  I  see  she's 
fond  of  me,  therefore  I'll  humour  her  a  little. 
{Aside.)  Well,  dry  your  eyes,  dry  your  pretty 
eyes,  and  I  will  hear  what  you  have  to  say. 

Leon.  Then  you  must  not  sjieak  to  me  of 
love  or  marriage  for  at  least  six  months,  unless 
it  be  in  the  language  of  your  eyes;  but  when 
the  happy  time  of  declaration  comes,  do  it 


118 


CHAELES   MOLLOY. 


with  such  a  dying  softness  in  your  eyes  and 
voice  as  may  charm  my  enamoured  senses 
into  a  belief  of  all  you  say.  With  dear  delight 
I'll  catch  the  flying  accents  from  those  withered 
lips,  and  in  a  kind  confusion  own  the  soft 
anguish  of  my  soul  which  virgin  modesty  had 

hitherto  forbid  me  to  declare .    I  need  not 

tell  you  what  scenes  of  happiness  must  con- 
sequently ensue. 

Steii.  I  thought  it  had  been  fairer  to  be 
downright  and  sincere. 

Leon.  Sincere !  O  hideous  !  {cries  out).  — 
What  a  thing  have  you  named;  no,  no,  sir, 
well-bred  peo^jle  are  never  sincere;  'tis  modish 
to  flattei',  lie,  and  deceive.  I  hate  your  out-of- 
fashioned  good  qualities .  Sincerity's  alto- 
gether of  vulgar  extraction. 

Steyi.  Look  ye,  young  woman,  all  this  is 
wide  of  the  purpose.  I  come  here  to  talk  of 
the  time  and  place  of  our  intended  marriage, 
which  your  father  desires  may  be  soon. 

Zeo?i.There you're  out  again;  'tis  time  enough 
to  talk  of  that  after  a  hundred  adventures  in 
time  of  courtship.  A  lover  must  make  his 
approaches  to  his  mistress  as  regularly  as  a 
general  does  against  a  fortified  town;  for  you 
are  to  supjiose  that  we  women  are  fortified 
with  pride,  dissimulation,  artifice,  cunning, 
and  so  forth.  In  a  word,  we  should  never 
think  of  marrying  till  we  begin  to  hate  one 
another. 

SterJ.  Ho\\^s  that  ?  Hate  one  another,  say 
you/ 

Leon.  And  another  thing,  I  never  will  sur- 
render unless  I'm  taken  in  form. 

Sterl.  Then  I  must  tell  you  once  for  all  that 
the  things  you've  been  speaking  of  are  not  for 
a  man  of  my  gravity. 

Leon.  You  may  see  I  like  your  person  by 
the  pains  I  take  to  instruct  you  to  win  my 
heart.  So,  sir,  I  think  we've  been  long  enough 
together  for  the  first  visit.  I  take  my  leave, 
and  am  your  humble  servant.   \_Exit  Leonora. 

Sterl.  I,  fakins,  I  don't  know  what  to  think; 
she  seems  very  wild,  and  that  I  don't  like. 
I  doubt  she'll  prove  an  extravagant  wife,  and 
that  I  don't  like ;  I'll  go  home  and  consider 
better  on't  before  I  proceed. 

Enter  Morecraft. 

Morec.  Well,  my  old  Nestor,  what  and  how? 
Od,  you  look  devilish  young  to-day  and  devilish 
handsome.  Od,  you've  stole  the  girl's  heart, 
I'm  sure — ay,  ay,  ha,  ha !  I  laugh  at  your 
young  blockheads;  we  old  fellows  are  the  men 
for  business  at  last.  Now,  a  young  coxcomb 
would    have    been   sighing   and    dying    and 


making  mouths  at  his  mistress  for  a  month 
before  he'd  venture  to  tell  her  what  he  would 
be  at,  but  an  old  cock  jumps  overall  cei-emony 
and  comes  to  the  point  at  once  ; — but  tell  me 
what's  the  result  of  this  visit? 

Sterl.  The  result  of  this  visit  your  daughter 
can  inform  you  as  well  as  I. — I'm  going  away 
about  business. 

Morec.  Stay, man, tell  me  what  she  said;  how 
did  she  receive  your  addresses  ? 

Sterl.  I  did  not  undeistand  a  word  she  said. 
First  let  me  ask  you  what  religion  your 
daughter  is  of? 

Morec.  Religion  !  why,  the  religion  of  all 
women,  I  think  ;  she  loves  money,  liberty,  and 
fine  clothes,  and  goes  to  church  to  be  admired; 
but  she  shall  be  of  any  religion  to  please  you; 
you  know  the  standing  argument  that  makes 
female  converts. 

Sterl.  You're  imposed  upon;  she  talked  in 
an  unknown  tongue.  We'll  confer  upon  this 
matter  the  next  time  we  meet. 

[^Exit  Sterling. 


A    CANDID    BEAUTY. 

(from  "the  coquette.") 

Enter  Bellamy  and  Julia  to  Mademoiselle 
Fantast  the  coquette,  with  La  Jupe 
her  maid. 

Fan.  Have  you  been  paying  your  levy,  sir, 
to  my  cousin's  toilet,  and  offering  your  weighty 
advice  in  point  of  dress? 

Bel.  I  do  pretend,  madam,  to  underetand 
something  of  the  art  of  dress. 

Fan.  It  requires  much  study  and  a  vast 
genius.  Pray,  sir,  how  do  you  like  my  coififeur  ? 
Is  it  modell'd  to  your  taste  ? 

Bel.  The  air  is  gallant  and  free,  but  me- 
thinks  it  stands  too  forward;  too  much  of 
your  face  cannot  be  seen. 

Fan.  How  does  the  air  of  my  cousin's 
please  you  \ 

Bel.  Infinitely  !  'Tis  the  exact  model  of  a 
beautiful  well-dressed  head. 

Fan.  Foolish  enough  !  How  dull  this  crea- 
ture is !  Pray,  sir,  give  me  leave  to  ask  you 
one  question :  Were  you  ever  in  love  ? 

Bel.  Yes,  madam. 

Fan.  Impossible !  Who  would  believe  it ! 
Was  it  in  your  own  country,  sir? 

Bel.  In  my  travels,  madam. 

Fan.  Pray,  sir,  describe  the  nymph  that 
made  so  great  a  conquest. 


MRS.  BARBER. 


119 


Bel.  If  you  would  have  a  description  of  lici- 
person,  I  must  recollect  my  ideas  and  summon 
all  my  fancy  to  my  aid.  I  ought  to  be  in- 
sj)ired  to  find  out  images  to  represent  her 
matchless  form.  [Looking  at  Julia. 

Fan.  First  as  to  her  complexion. 

Bel.  A  little  darker  than  yours,  madam. 

Fan.  O  hideous  !  then  she  was  too  dark. 

Bel.  Pardon  my  mistake,  I  mean  a  little 
fairer. 

Fan.  O  hideous !  then  she  was  too  fair. 
You  might  as  well  have  had  a  i)assion  for  a 
piece  of  chalk. 

Bel.  O  glorious  Vanity !  How  happy  dost 
thou  make  thy  votaries  ! 

Fan.  Your  English  ladies  have  good  faces. 

Bel.  So  all  travellers  are  pleased  to  say. 

Fan.  But  though  my  dress,  sir,  had  the 
misfortune  to  fall  under  your  displeasure,  I 
hope  you'll  have  a  more  extensive  complais- 
ance for  my  face.  How  do  you  like  my  colour  ? 
Does  this  red  I  wear  please  you  ? 

Bel.  This  side  appears  with  a  beautiful 
vermilion;  it  puts  nature  out  of  countenance. 
But  here  methinks  your  pencil  has  but  lazily 
performed  its  office. 

Fan.  Pray  let  me  see.  {Pulls  out  a  glass.) 
O  frightful !  Why,  I  ha'u't  put  on  half  my 
face  to-day.  How  could  you  be  so  barbarous 
not  to  tell  me  on't  sooner?  La  Jupe,  fly  and 
bring  me  my  things ;  I  must  mend  it  imme- 
diately. [Exit  La  Jupe. 

Julia.  I  think  your  English  ladies  use  no 
helps  to  beauty. 

Bel.  The  better  bred  do,  madam,  but  'tis 
secretly. 


Fan.  I  find  they're  very  apt  to  be  modest 
where  they  should  not.  'Tis  something  odd 
that  a  woman  should  be  industrious  to  conceal 
her  own  ingenuity.  For  my  part  I  may  say 
without  vanity  that  I've  a  change  of  fine 
features  for  every  day  in  the  week. 

Enter  La  Jupe  with  paint. 

Oh,  come !  Now,  sir,  I'll  see  what  you're  good 
for.  Exercise  your  gallantry  a  little.  Here, 
hold  the  glass  for  me,  sir,  your  servant.  I'll 
begin  with  a  touch  here — a  little  there  won't 
be  amiss.  {Paints.)  I  must  move  this  patch 
or  I  shall  look  like  my  lady  What-do-you-call 
her,  that  always  charges  her  magnificent  nose 
with  three  large  patches.  Pray,  sir,  take  a 
patch  out  of  that  box  and  put  it  me  upon  this 
dimple. — There,  very  well,  sir,  your  servant. 
Now,  I  think  my  face  is  uniform.  But  prav, 
sir,  do  you  handle  the  pencil  and  give  an  ad- 
ditional touch  where  you  think  it  may  want. 
Let's  see,  have  you  any  fancy  ? 

Bel.  Nothing  can  mend  what  you  have  so 
well  performed.  You  have  a  very  fine  hand, 
madam. 

Fan.  Yes,  I  think  I  need  not  blush  for  what 
I've  done  to-day. 

Julia.  No,  and  if  she  should  she  has  taken 
care  it  should  not  be  seen. 

Fan.  If  a  bashful  Englishwoman  were  to  do 
this,  she'd  hide  herself  in  her  closet,  and  bar 
the  door  as  if  it  were  to  keep  out  the  enemy, 
and  nobody  is  in  the  secret  but  some  chere 
confidente,  though  as  soon  as  ever  she  shows 
her  face  'tis  visible  by  the  clumsiness  on't  that 
'tis  all  of  her  own  making. 


MRS.     BARBER. 


Born  1712  — Died  1757. 


[Mi's.  Barber  was  well  known  in  her  own 
day  as  a  member  of  the  female  coterie  that 
gathered  round  and  made  an  idol  of  Dean 
Swift.  She  was  a  wonaan  of  pleasant  manners 
and  considerable  talents, but  these  were  wasted 
to  a  great  extent,  as  was  then  the  fashion,  in 
unfruitful  wit  combats,  and  in  the  production 
of  ephemeral  pettinesses  in  verse.  Her  birth 
took  place  in  1712,  and  early  in  life  she  mar- 
ried a  ])erson  in  business,  a  quiet  and  estim- 
able man,  who  gave  her  very  much  her  own 
way  in  everything.     In  1734  she  published  a 


volume  of  poems  under  the  patronage  of 
Dean  Swift  and  Lord  Orrery,  which  was 
well  received ;  and  in  1755,  when  she  was 
a  widow,  produced  another  volume  of  Poems 
b>/  Eminent  Ladies^  the  greater  pai't  of  which 
is  from  her  own  pen.  It  was  the  age  of  the 
blue-stocking,  and  learned  ladies  were  plen- 
tiful in  that  circle,  to  which  wit  was  the 
key  for  even  the  wife  of  a  plain  business 
man. 

Mrs.  Barber's  poems  are  not  of  a  very  high 
order  of  merit,  but  they  were,  like  herself. 


120 


MRS.   BARBER. 


pleasant  and  not  inelegant.  She  seems  to 
have  rhymed  with  great  ease,  and  for  this  very 
reason  no  doubt  she  took  little  if  any  trouble 
to  revise  her  work.  Consequently  common- 
place expressions  at  times  may  be  found  in 
the  midst  of  her  best  passages.  On  the  whole, 
however,  her  verses  possess  the  merit  of 
naturalness, — a  merit  often  vainly  sought  in 
the  too  refined  productions  of  more  pretentious 
poets.  For  this  reason,  and  because  of  the 
reputation  which  yet  clings  to  her  name,  she 
deserves  to  be  remembered  here. 

Her  death  occurred  in  1757  in  the  forty- 
sixth  year  of  her  age.] 


APOLOGY   FOR  THE   RICH. 

All-bounteous  Heav'n,  Castalio  cries, 
With  bended  knees  and  lifted  eyes, 
When  shall  I  have  the  power  to  bless, 
And  raise  up  merit  in  distress? 

How  do  our  hearts  deceive  us  here! 
He  gets  ten  thousand  pounds  a  year. 
With  this  the  pious  youth  is  able 
To  build  and  plant,  and  keep  a  table; 
But  then  the  poor  he  must  not  treat: 
Who  asks  the  wretch,  that  wants  to  eat? 
Alas!  to  ease  their  woes  he  wishes. 
But  cannot  live  without  ten  dishes: 
Tho'  six  would  serve  as  well,  'tis  true; 
But  one  must  live  as  others  do. 
He  now  feels  wants  unknown  before, 
Wants  still  increasing  with  his  store. 
The  good  Castalio  must  provide 
Brocade  and  jewels  for  his  bride; 
Her  toilet  shines  with  plate  embossed. 
What  sums  her  lace  and  linen  cost! 
The  clothes  that  must  his  person  grace 
Shine  with  embroiderj'  and  lace. 
The  costly  pride  of  Persian  looms. 
And  Guido's  paintings,  grace  his  rooms; 
His  wealth  Castalio  will  not  waste. 
But  must  have  everything  in  taste: 
He's  an  economist  confest, 
But  what  he  buys  must  l)e  the  best; 
For  common  use  a  set  of  plate, 
Old  china  when  he  dines  in  state; 
A  coach  and  six  to  take  the  air, 
Besides  a  chariot  and  a  chair. 
All  these  important  calls  supplied — 
Calls  of  necessity,  not  pride — 
His  income's  regularly  spent, 
He  scarcely  saves  to  pay  his  rent. 
No  man  alive  would  do  more  good, 
Or  give  more  freely  if  he  could. 
He  grieves  whene'er  the  wretched  sue. 
But  what  can  poor  Castalio  do? 


Would  Heav'n  but  send  ten  thousand  more, 
He'd  give — just  as  he  did  before. 


THE   OAK   AND   THE   IVY. 

An  oak  with  spreading  branches  crowned 

Beheld  an  ivy  on  the  ground. 

Exposed  to  every  trampling  beast 

That  roam'd  around  the  dreary  waste. 

The  tree  of  Jove  in  all  his  state 

With  pity  viewed  the  ivy's  fate. 

And  kindly  told  her  she  should  find 

Security  around  his  rind : 

Nor  was  that  only  his  intent, 

But  to  bestow  some  nourishment. 

The  branches  saw,  and  grieved  to  see, 

Some  juices  taken  from  the  tree. 
"Parent,"  say  they  in  angry  tone, 
"Your  sap  should  nourish  us  alone; 

Wh)'  should  you  nurse  this  stranger  plant 

With  what  your  sons  in  time  may  want? — 

May  want  to  raise  us  high  in  air. 

And  make  us  more  distinguished  there." 
"'Tis  well,"  the  parent  tree  replied; 
"Must  I,  to  gratify  your  pride, 

Act  only  with  a  narrow  view 

Of  doing  good  to  none  but  you? 

Know,  sons,  though  Jove  hath  made  me  great> 

I  am  not  safe  from  storms  of  fate; 

Is  it  not  prudent  then,  I  pray, 

To  guard  against  another  day? 

Whilst  I'm  alive  you  crown  my  head, 

This  graces  me  alive  and  dead. " 


STELLA   AND   FLA  VIA 

Stella  and  Flavia  every  hour 
Unnumbered  hearts  surprise; 

In  Stella's  soul  lies  all  her  power, 
And  Flavia's  in  her  eyes. 

More  boundless  Flavia's  conquests  are, 
And  Stella's  more  confined; 

All  can  discern  a  face  that's  fair. 
But  few  a  lovely  mind. 

Stella,  like  Britain's  monarch,  reigns 

O'er  cultivated  lands; 
Like  Eastern  tyrants  Flavia  deigns 

To  rule  o'er  barren  sands. 

Then  boast,  fair  Flavia,  boast  your  face, 

Your  beauty's  only  store; 
Your  charms  will  every  day  decrease, 

Each  day  gives  Stella  more. 


LAURENCE   STERNE. 


121 


LAURENCE     STERNE. 


BOBN  1713  — Died  1768. 


[Although  a  branch  of  the  family  of  Sterne 
had  been  for  several  generations  settled  in 
Ireland,  Laurence  Sterne  was  an  Irishman  by 
accident  more  than  anything  else.  His  father 
was  an  officer  in  the  English  army,  and  was 
stationed  at  Clonmel  in  Ireland  for  a  short 
time.  There  his  wife  joined  him,  and  a  few 
days  after  her  arrival  gave  birth  to  Laurence. 
About  the  same  time  the  regiment  in  which  his 
father  served  was  disbanded,  and  so  soon  as  the 
infant  was  able  for  the  journey  his  parents  took 
him  with  them  to  the  family  seat  at  Elvington 
in  Yorkshire.  In  about  ten  months  time  the 
regiment  was  re-formed,  and,  as  Sterne  him- 
self says,  the  "  household  decamped  with  bag 
and  baggage  for  Dublin."  After  some  years' 
knocking  about,  chiefly  in  Ireland,  he  was  in 
1722  sent  to  a  school  at  Halifax  in  Yorkshire. 
Here  he  continued  till  1731,  in  which  year  his 
father  died.  While  he  was  there  an  incident 
occurred  which  he  himself  describes  thus — "He 
(the  schoolmaster)  had  the  ceiling  of  the  school- 
room new  whitewashed  ;  the  ladder  remained 
there;  I  one  unlucky  day  mounted  it,  and 
wrote  with  a  brush  in  large  capital  letters, 
Lau.  Sterne,  for  which  the  usher  severely 
whipped  me.  My  master  was  very  much  hurt 
at  this,  and  said  before  me  that  never  should 
that  name  be  effaced,  for  I  was  a  boy  of  genius, 
and  he  was  sure  that  I  should  come  to  prefer- 
ment. This  ex^^ression  made  me  forget  the 
stripes  I  had  received." 

In  the  year  1732  a  cousin  took  him  in  charge 
and  sent  him  to  the  University  of  Cambridge, 
where  he  was  admitted  to  Jesus  College  on 
the  6th  July,  1733.  In  March,  1735,  he  ma- 
triculated, and  in  January,  1736,  he  received 
the  degree  of  B.A.  After  this  he  went  to 
York,  where  his  uncle  Dr.  Jaques  Sterne 
resided,  and  by  the  interest  of  this  relative  he 
was  presented  with  the  living  of  Sutton.  At 
York  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  lady 
whom  he  mamed  in  1741.  After  his  mar- 
riage his  uncle  also  procured  him  the  pre- 
bendary of  York,  "  but,"  says  Sterne,  "  he 
quarrelled  with  me  afterwai'ds,  because  I 
would  not  write  paragraphs  in  the  newspapere; 
though  he  was  a  party  man,  I  was  not,  and 
detested  such  dirty  work,  thinking  it  beneath 
me.  From  that  period  he  became  my  bitterest 
enemy."    However,  Sterne  soon  also  acquired 


by  his  wife's  means  the  living  of  Stillington, 
and  "  remained  near  twenty  years  at  Sutton, 
doing  duty  at  both  places."  "  I  had  then  very 
good  health,"  he  says.  "Books,  painting, 
fiddling,  and  shooting  were  my  amusements." 

In  1760  he  took  a  house  at  York,  in  which 
he  placed  his  family,  while  he  himself  went 
up  to  London  to  publish  the  first  two  volumes 
of  The  Life  and  Opinions  of  Tristram  Shandy, 
Gent.  The  success  of  these  was  almost  enough 
to  turn  his  head ;  and  fortune  still  favouring 
him  he  was  the  same  year  presented  with  the 
curacy  of  Coxwold, "  a  sweet  retirement  in  com- 
parison of  Sutton."  Here  he  resided  for  some 
years  at  Shandy  Hall  in  the  village,  and  here 
also  he  finished  his  Tristram  Shandy  Si\id  other 
works.  In  1 762  he  went  to  France,  the  outcome 
of  his  journey  thither  being  the  Sentimental 
Journey.  In  1764  we  find  him  at  Montpellier, 
where  his  physicians  almost  poisoned  him  with 
"  what  they  call  boidllons  refraichissants;  it  is 
a  cock  flayed  alive  and  boiled  with  poppy 
seeds,  then  pounded  in  a  mortiir,  afterwards 
passed  through  a  sieve.  There  is  to  be  one 
crawfish  in  it,  and  I  was  gi-avely  told  it 
must  be  a  male  one ;  a  female  would  do  me 
more  hurt  than  good."  In  the  summer  of 
1767  the  Sentimental  Journey  was  written  at 
Coxwold,  and  about  the  end  of  the  year  he 
went  up  to  Loudon  to  have  it  published.  By 
this  time  the  disease  with  which  he  had  been 
afflicted  for  some  time,  consumption  of  the 
lungs,  took  a  firmer  hold  of  him.  However, 
he  still  kept  up  his  spirits  and  visited  his 
friends  as  usual,  being  no  way  frightened  at 
the  approach  of  death.  He  also  wrote  several 
letters  to  his  beloved  daughter,  in  a  vein 
which  shows  the  weightier  side  of  his  char- 
acter, and  pi'oves  him  to  have  been,  not  a 
mere  jester,  but  a  true  philosopher,  who  fre- 
quently, like  Figaro,  made  haste  to  laugh  lest 
he  should  be  forced  to  cry.  These  letters  she 
published  in  three  volumes,  with  a  short  auto- 
biography of  her  father,  in  1775.  On  the  18th 
March,  1 768,  after  a  short  struggle  his  spirit 
parted  from  his  worn-out  body  at  his  lodgings 
in  Bond  Street. 

Sterne's  works  were  published  in  the  fol- 
lowing order: — The  Case  of  Elijah  and  the 
Widow  of  Zarephath  Considered,  a  sermon, 
1747;    The  Abuses  oj   Conscience,  a  sermon, 


122 


LAURENCE   STERNE. 


1750;  Tristram  Shandy,  vols.  i.  ii.  1759;  iii.  iv. 
1761;  V.  vi.  1762;  vii.  viii.  1765;  ix.  1767; 
Sermons,  vols.  i.  ii.  1760;  iii.  iv.  v.  vi.  1766; 
and  A  Sentimental  Journey,  1768.  His  other 
and  lesser  works  appeared  after  his  death.  In 
1808  his  complete  works,  with  life  and  plates, 
by  Stothard  and  Thurston,  were  published. 

Sterne's  great  work  Tristram  Shandy  has 
drawn  forth  very  opposite  opinions  from 
good  authorities.  "If  I  were  requested  to 
name  the  book  of  all  others  which  com- 
bined wit  and  humour  under  their  highest 
appearance  of  levity  with  the  profoundest 
wisdom,  it  would  be  Tristram  Shandy,"  says 
Leigh  Hunt.  "  At  present  nothing  is  talked 
of,  nothing  admired,  but  what  I  cannot  help 
calling  a  very  insipid  and  tedious  performance," 
says  Horace  Walpole :  "  it  is  a  kind  of  novel 
called  The  Life  and  Opinions  of  Tristram 
Shandy,  the  great  humour  in  which  consists 
in  the  whole  narration  going  backward.  It 
makes  one  smile  two  or  three  times  at  the  be- 
ginning, but  in  recompense  makes  one  yawn 
for  two  hours.  The  characters  are  tolerably 
kept  up,  but  the  humour  is  for  ever  attempted 
and  missed."  This  extraordinary  work  begins 
with  a  relation  of  the  birth  of  Tristram 
Shandy  and  the  circumstances  connected  with 
it.  His  father  and  his  uncle  Toby  are  char- 
acters in  whom  "  he  has  managed  to  oppose 
with  equal  felicity  and  originality,"  says  Haz- 
Utt,  "  pure  intellect  and  pure  good  nature." 
Uncle  Toby  is  a  simple-minded  Christian 
gentleman,  and  his  servant  Corporal  Trim  a 
man  both  good  and  honest,  but  with  one  fault 
— he  must  give  advice.  The  baptism  of 
Tristram  is  signalized  by  a  blunder  of  the 
maid  Susannah,  by  which  the  child  is  so 
named  instead  of  Trismegistus,  as  his  father 
had  intended.  Dr.  Slop  and  Yorick  are  both 
inimitable  creations,  and  "the  story  of  Le 
Fevre,"  says  Hazlitt,  "is  perhaps  the  finest 
in  the  English  language;"  and  for  Uncle 
Toby  he  says,  "  of  his  bowling-green,  his 
sieges,  and  his  amours,  who  would  think  any- 
thing amiss?"  The  Widow  Wadman,  in  her 
determined  siege  of  Uncle  Toby,  at  length 
overreaching  herself  by  her  curiosity,  shows 
that  Sterne  had  rather  a  low  estimate  of  hu- 
man nature  in  women  of  the  Wadman  type. 

As  to  Sterne's  position  as  a  writer  there  have 
been  many  acrimonious  debates,  but  even  his 
greatest  enemies  acknowledge  him  possessed 
of  both  wit  and  humour,  a  wonderfully  vivid 
style,  and  a  power  of  reading  and  depicting 
character  far  beyond  that  of  any  writer  of  his 
day.     As  to  his  satirical  powers  all  are  not  so 


well  agreed,  and  the  sentimental  portions  of 
his  works  have  been  frequently  spoken  of  as 
affectations  and  hypocrisies.  There  can  be  no 
doubt  that  his  position  as  a  minister  has  been 
the  cause  of  much  hurt  to  his  fame  as  an 
author,  many  people  not  liking  the  combina- 
tion of  preacher  with  wit  and  humourist.  We 
are  firmly  persuaded  that  had  he  been  a  lay- 
man his  fame  would  stand  much  higher  to-day 
than  it  does,  and  that  many  pieces  of  bitter 
biography  written  concerning  him  would  never 
have  appeared.  Garrick,  who  knew  him  well, 
wrote  the  following  epitaph  for  him: — 

' '  Shall  pride  a  heap  of  sculptured  marble  raise, 
Some  worthless,  unmourn'd,  titled  fool  to  praise ; 
And  shall  we  not  by  one  poor  grave-stone  learn 
Where  genius,  wit,  and  humour  sleep  with  Sterne.'"] 


WIDOW   WADMAN'S   EYE, 

(FROM    "TRISTRAM    SHANDY.") 

I  am  half  distracted.  Captain  Shandy,  said 
Mrs.  Wadman,  holding  up  her  cambric  hand- 
kerchief to  her  left  eye,  as  she  approached  the 
door  of  my  uncle  Toby's  sentry-box ;  a  mote, 
— or  sand, — or  something, — I  know  not  what, 
has  got  into  this  eye  of  mine ; — do  look  into 
it: — it  is  not  in  the  white. 

In  saying  which  Mrs.  Wadman  edged  her- 
self close  in  beside  my  uncle  Toby,  and  squeez- 
ing herself  down  upon  the  corner  of  his  bench, 
she  gave  him  an  opportunity  of  doing  it  with- 
out rising  up. — Do  look  into  it,  said  she. 

Honest  soul !  thovi  didst  look  into  it  with  as 
much  innocency  of  heart  as  ever  child  looked 
into  a  raree-show-box  ;  and  'twere  as  much  a 
sin  to  have  hurt  thee. 

If  a  man  will  be  peejjing  of  his  own  accord 
into  things  of  that  nature,  I've  nothing  to  say 
to  it. 

My  uncle  Toby  never  did :  and  I  will  an- 
swer for  him  that  he  would  have  sat  quietly 
upon  a  sofa  from  June  to  January  (which,  you 
know,  takes  in  both  the  hot  and  cold  mouths) 
with  an  eye  as  fine  as  the  Thracian  Ehodope's 
beside  liim,  without  being  able  to  tell  whether 
it  was  a  black  or  a  blue  one. 

The  diificulty  was  to  get  my  uncle  Toby  to 
look  at  one  at  all. 

'Tis  surmounted.     And 

I  see  him  yonder,  with  his  pipe  pendulous 
in  his  hand,  and  the  ashes  falling  out  of  it, — 
looking, — and  looking, — then  rubbing  his  eyes, 
• — and   looking  again,  with  twice  the  good- 


LAURENCE   STERNE. 


123 


nature  that  ever  Galileo  lookoil  for  ;\  spot  in 
the  sun. 

In  vain !  for,  by  all  the  powers  which  ani- 
mate the  organ — Widow  Wadman's  left  eye 
shines  this  moment  as  lucid  as  her  right ; — 
there  is  neither  mote,  nor  sand,  nor  dust,  nor 
chaff,  nor  speck,  nor  particle  of  opaque  matter 
floating  in  it.  —  There  is  nothing,  my  dear 
paternal  uncle  !  but  one  lambent  delicious  fire, 
furtively  shooting  out  from  every  part  of  it, 
in  all  directions  into  thine. 

If  thou  lookest,  uncle  Toby,  in  search  of  this 
mote  one  moment  longer,  thou  art  undone. 

I  protest,  madam,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  I 
can  see  nothing  whatever  in  your  eye. 

— It  is  not  in  the  white,  said  Mrs.  Wadman. 
— My  uncle  Toby  looked  with  might  and  main 
into  the  pupil. 

Now,  of  all  the  eyes  which  ever  were  created, 
from  your  own,  madam,  up  to  those  of  Venus 
herself,  which  certainly  were  as  venereal  a  pair 
of  eyes  as  ever  stood  in  a  head,  there  never 
was  an  eye  of  them  all  so  fitted  to  rob  my  uncle 
Toby  of  his  repose  as  the  very  eye  at  which 
he  was  looking.  It  was  not,  madam,  a  rolling 
eye, — a  romping,  or  a  wanton  one; — nor  was 
it  an  eye  sparkling,  petulant,  or  imperious — 
of  high  claims  and  terrifying  exactions,  which 
would  have  curdled  at  once  that  milk  of  human 
nature  of  which  my  uncle  Toby  was  made  up; 
■ — but  'twas  an  eye  full  of  gentle  salutations, — 
and  soft  responses, — speaking, — not  like  the 
trumpet-stop  of  some  ill-made  organ,  in  which 
many  an  eye  I  talk  to,  holds  coarse  converee, 
but  whispering  soft, — Hke  the  last  low  accents 
of  an  expiring  saint,  —  "How  can  you  live 
comfortless.  Captain  Shandy,  and  alone,  with- 
out a  bosom  to  lean  your  head  on, — or  trust 
your  cares  tol" 

It  was  an  eye — 

But  I  shall  be  in  love  with  it  myself,  if  I 
say  another  word  about  it. 

It  did  my  uncle  Toby's  business. 


THE    BASTILE    r.    LIBERTY. 

(from  "a  sentimental  jouuney.") 

— And  liere,  I  know,  Eugeuius,  thou  wilt 
smile  at  the  remembrance  of  a  short  dialogue 
which  passed  betwixt  us,  the  moment  I  was 
going  to  set  out. — I  must  tell  it  here. 

Eugenius,  knowing  that  I  was  as  little 
subject  to  be  overburthened  with  money  as 


thought,  had  drawn  me  a.side  to  interrogate 
me  how  much  I  had  taken  care  for?  Upon 
telling  him  the  exact  sum,  Eugenius  shook 
his  head  and  said  it  would  not  do ;  so  pulled 
out  his  purse,  in  order  to  empty  it  into  mine, 
I've  enough,  in  conscience,  Eugenius,  said 
I.  Indeed  Yorick,  you  have  not,  replied 
Eugenius;  I  know  France  and  Italy  better 
than  you.  But  you  don't  consider,  Eugenius, 
said  I,  refusing  his  offer,  that  before  I  have 
been  three  days  in  Paris,  I  shall  take  care  to 
say  or  do  something  or  other  for  which  I  shall 
get  clapped  up  into  the  Bastile,  and  that  I 
shall  live  there  a  couple  of  months  entirely  at 
the  King  of  France's  expense.  I  beg  pardon, 
said  Eugeuius,  drily ;  really,  I  had  forgot  that 
resource. 

Now  the  event  I  had  treated  gaily  came 
seriously  to  my  door. 

Is  it  folly,  or  nonchalance,  or  philosophy,  or 
pei'tinacity  ;• — or  what  is  it  in  me,  that,  after 
all,  when  La  Fleur  had  gone  down  stairs,  and 
I  was  quite  alone,  I  could  not  bring  down  my 
mind  to  think  of  it  otherwise  than  I  had  then 
spoken  of  it  to  Eugenius? 

— And  as  for  the  Bastile — the  teiTor  is  in 
the  word. —  Make  the  most  of  it  you  can,  said 
I  to  myself,  the  Bastile  is  but  another  word 
for  a  tower  ; — and  a  tower  is  but  another  word 
for  a  house  you  can't  get  out  of. — Mercy  on 
the  gouty !  for  they  are  in  it  twice  a  year. — 
But  with  nine  livres  a  daj^,  and  pen  and  ink 
and  pajier  and  patience,  albeit  a  man  can't  get 
out,  he  may  do  very  well  within,^ — at  least  for 
a  month  or  six  weeks ;  at  the  end  of  which,  if 
he  is  a  harmless  fellow,  his  innocence  appears, 
and  he  comes  out  a  better  and  wiser  man  than 
he  went  in. 

I  had  some  occasion  (I  forget  what)  to  step 
into  the  court-yard,  as  I  settled  this  account; 
and  remember  I  walked  down  stairs  in  no 
small  triumph  with  the  conceit  of  my  reason- 
ing.— Beshrew  the  sombre  pencil!  said  I, 
vauntingly — for  I  envy  not  its  power,  which 
paints  the  evils  of  life  with  so  hard  and  deadly 
a  colouring.  The  mind  sits  terrified  at  the 
objects  she  has  magnified  herself,  and  black- 
ened; reduce  them  to  their  proper  size  and 
hue,  she  ovei'looks  them.  'Tis  true,  said  I, 
correcting  the  proposition — the  Bastile  is  not 
an  evil  to  be  despised.  But  strip  it  of  its 
towers — fill  up  the  foss — unbarricade  the 
doors — call  it  simply  a  confinement,  and  sup- 
pose 'tis  some  tyrant  of  a  distemper — and  not 
of  a  man,  which  holds  you  in  it — the  evil 
vanishes,  and  you  bear  the  other  half  without 
complaint. 


124 


LAURENCE   STERNE. 


I  was  interrupted  in  the  liey-day  of  this 
soliloquy,  with  a  voice  which  I  took  to  be  of 
a  child,  which  complained  "  it  could  not  get 
out." — 1  looked  up  and  down  the  passage,  and, 
seeing  neither  man,  woman,  nor  child,  I  went 
out  without  further  attention. 

In  my  return  back  through  the  passage,  I 
heard  the  same  words  re})eated  twice  over; 
and,  looking  up,  I  saw  it  wiis  a  starling  hung 
in  a  little  cage.  "  I  cau't  get  out — I  can't  get 
out,"  said  the  starling. 

I  stood  looking  at  the  bird ;  and  to  every 
person  who  came  through  the  passage,  it  ran 
fluttering  to  the  side  towards  which  they 
approached  it,  with  the  same  lamentation  of 
its  captivity, — "  I  cau't  get  out,"  said  the  star- 
ling. God  hel]:)  thee !  said  I, — but  I'll  let 
thee  out,  cost  what  it  will ;  so  I  turned  about 
the  cage  to  get  the  door :  it  was  twisted  and 
double  twisted  so  fast  with  wire  there  was  no 
getting  it  open  without  pulling  the  cage  to 
pieces. — I  took  both  hands  to  it. 

The  bird  flew  to  the  place  where  I  was 
attempting  his  deliverance,  and,  thrusting  his 
head  through  the  trellis,  pressed  his  breast 
against  it,  as  if  impatient.  I  fear,  poor  crea- 
ture, said  I,  I  cannot  set  thee  at  libei'ty. 
"  No,"  said  the  starling ;  "  I  can't  get  out — I 
cau't  get  out." 

I  vow  I  never  had  my  affections  more  ten- 
derly awakened ;  nor  do  I  remember  an  inci- 
dent in  my  life  where  the  dissipated  sjjirits, 
to  which  my  reason  had  been  a  bubble,  were 
so  suddenly  called  home.  Mechanical  as  the 
notes  were,  yet  so  true  in  tune  to  nature  were 
they  chanted,  that  in  one  moment  they  over- 
threw all  my  systematic  reasonings  upon  the 
Bastile ;  and  I  heavily  walked  up  stairs,  un- 
saying every  word  I  had  said  in  going  down 
them. 

Disguise  thyself  as  thou  wilt,  still,  Slavery, 
said  I,  still  thou  art  a  bitter  draught !  and, 
though  thousands  in  ail  ages  have  been  made 
to  drink  of  thee,  thou  art  no  less  bitter  on 
that  account. — 'Tis  thou,  thrice  sweet  and 
gracious  goddess,  addressing  myself  to  Libeiiy, 
whom  all,  in  i)ublic  or  in  private,  worship, 
whose  taste  is  grateful,  and  ever  will  be  so, 
till  Nature  herself  shall  change.  No  tint  of 
words  can  spot  thy  snowy  mantle,  nor  chymic 
power  turn  thy  sceptre  into  iron ; — with  thee, 
to  smile  upon  him  as  he  eats  his  crust,  the 
swain  is  liappier  than  his  monarch,  from 
wliose  court  thou  art  exiled. — Gracious  Hea- 
ven !  cried  I,  kneeling  down  upon  the  last 
step  but  one  in  my  ascent,  grant  me  but 
health,  thou  gi-eat  Bestower  of   it,  and  give 


me  but  this  fair  goddess  as  my  companion,— 
and  shower  down  thy  mitres,  if  it  seem  good 
unto  thy  Divine  Providence,  upon  those  heads 
which  are  aching  for  them  ! 


THE   STORY   OF   IcORICK. 

(FROM    "TRISTRAM    SHANDY.") 

Yorick  was  this  jiarson's  name,  and,  what 
is  very  remarkable  in  it  (as  appears  from  a 
most  ancient  account  of  the  family,  wrote  upon 
strong  vellum,  and  now  in  perfect  preserva- 
tion), it  had  been  exactly  so  spelt  for  near — 
I  was  within  an  ace  of  saying  nine  hundred 
years ; — but  I  would  not  shake  my  credit  in 
telling  an  improbable  trvith — however  indis- 
putable in  itself ; — and,  therefore,  I  shall  con- 
tent myself  with  only  saying — It  had  been 
exactly  so  spelt,  without  the  least  variation  or 
transposition  of  a  single  letter,  for  I  do  not 
know  how  long ;  which  is  more  than  I  would 
venture  to  say  of  one  half  of  the  best  surnames 
in  the  kingdom ;  which,  in  a  course  of  years, 
have  generally  undergone  as  many  chops  and 
changes  as  their  ownei-s. — Has  this  been 
owing  to  the  pride,  or  to  the  shame,  of  the 
respective  proprietors? — In  honest  truth,  I 
think  sometimes  to  the  one  and  sometimes  to 
the  other,  just  as  the  temptation  has  wrought. 
But  a  villainous  affair  it  is,  and  will  one  day 
so  blend  and  confound  us  altogether  that  no 
one  shall  be  able  to  stand  up  and  swear  "That 
his  own  gi-eat-grandfather  was  the  man  who 
did  either  this  or  that." 

This  evil  has  been  sviiliciently  fenced  against 
by  the  prudent  care  of  the  Yorick  family,  and 
their  religious  preservation  of  these  records  I 
quote;  which  do  farther  inform  us  that  the 
family  was  originally  of  Danish  extraction, 
and  had  been  ti-ansplanted  into  England  as 
eai'ly  as  in  the  reign  of  Horwendilus,  king  of 
Denmark,  in  whose  court,  it  seems,  an  ancestor 
of  this  Ml'.  Yorick,  and  fi'om  whom  he  was 
lineally  descended,  held  a  considerable  post  to 
the  day  of  his  death.  Of  what  nature  this 
considerable  post  was  this  record  saith  not — 
it  only  adds  that,  for  near  two  centuries,  it 
had  been  totally  abolished  as  altogether  un- 
necessary, not  only  in  that  court,  but  in  every 
other  court  of  the  Christian  world. 

It  has  often  come  into  my  head  that  this 
])ost  could  be  no  other  than  that  of  the  king's 
chief  jester;— and  that  Hamlet's  Yorick,  in 
our  Shakspere,  many  of  whose  plays,  you  know, 


LAURENCE   STERNE. 


125 


are  founded  upon  authenticated  facts,  was 
certainly  the  very  man. 

I  have  not  the  time  to  look  iuto  Saxo- 
Gramniaticus's  Danish  history  to  know  the 
certainty  of  this; — but,  if  you  have  leisure, 
and  can  easily  get  at  the  book,  you  may  do  it 
full  as  well  yourself. 

I  had  just  time,  in  my  travels  through  Den- 
mark with  Mr.  Noddy's  eldest  son,  whom,  in 
the  year  1741,  I  accompanied  as  governor, 
riding  along  with  him  at  a  prodigious  rate 
through  most  parts  of  Europe,  and  of  which 
original  journey,  performed  by  us  two,  a  most 
delectable  narrative  will  be  given  in  the  i)ro- 
gress  of  this  work  ;  I  had  just  time,  I  say,  and 
that  was  all,  to  prove  the  truth  of  an  observa- 
tion made  by  a  long  sojourner  in  that  country 
— namely,  "That  nature  was  neither  very 
lavish,  nor  was  she  was  very  stingy,  in  her 
gifts  of  genius  and  capacity  to  its  inhabitants; 
— but,  like  a  discreet  parent,  was  moderately 
kind  to  them  all;  observing  such  an  equal 
tenour  in  the  distribution  of  her  favours  as  to 
bring  them,  in  those  points,  pretty  near  to  a 
level  with  each  other;  so  that  you  will  meet 
with  few  instances  in  that  kingdom  of  refined 
parts,  but  a  great  deal  of  good  jjlain  household 
understanding,  amongst  all  ranks  of  people, 
of  which  everybody  has  a  share  ; " — which  is, 
I  think,  very  right. 

With  us,  you  see,  the  case  is  quite  different: 
—  we  are  all  ups  and  downs  in  this  matter ; — 
you  are  a  gi-eat  genius; — or,  'tis  fifty  to  one, 
sir,  you  are  a  great  dunce  and  a  blockhead; — 
not  that  there  is  a  total  want  of  intermediate 
steps; — no, — we  are  not  so  irregular  as  that 
comes  to; — but  the  two  extremes  are  more 
common,  and  in  a  gi'eater  degree,  in  this 
unsettled  island,  where  Nature,  in  her  gifts 
and  dispositions  of  this  kind,  is  most  whimsi- 
cal and  capricious  ;  Fortune  herself  not  being 
more  so  in  the  bequest  of  her  goods  and  chat- 
tels than  she. 

This  is  all  that  ever  sniggered  my  faith  in 
regai'd  to  Yorick's  extraction,  who,  by  what  I 
can  remember  of  him,  and  by  all  the  accounts 
I  could  ever  get  of  him,  seemed  not  to  have 
had  one  single  drop  of  Danish  blood  in  his 
whole  crasis — in  nine  hundred  years  it  might 
possibly  have  all  run  out : — I  will  not  philoso- 
phize one  moment  with  you  about  it;  for, 
happen  how  it  would,  the  fact  was  this, — that, 
instead  of  that  cold  phlegm  and  exact  regu- 
larity of  sense  and  humoui-s  you  would  have 
looked  for  in  one  so  extracted — he  was,  on  the 
contrary,  as  mercurial  and  sublimated  a  com- 
position— as  heteroclite  a  creature  in  all  his 


declensions — with  as  much  life  and  whim,  and 
gaite  de  coeur  about  him,  as  the  kindliest  cli- 
mate could  have  engendered  and  put  together. 
With  all  this  sail  poor  Yorick  carried  not  one 
ounce  of  ballast ;  he  was  utterly  unpractised 
in  the  world ;  and,  at  the  age  of  twenty-six, 
knew  just  about  as  well  how  to  steer  his 
course  in  it  as  a  romping,  unsuspicious  girl  of 
thirteen :  so  that  upon  his  first  setting  out, 
the  brisk  gale  of  his  sjjirits,  as  you  will  ima- 
gine, ran  him  foul  ten  times  in  a  day  of  some- 
body's tackling;  and  as  the  grave  and  more 
slow-paced  were  oftenest  in  his  way,  you  may 
likewise  imagine  it  was  with  such  he  had 
generally  the  ill-luck  to  get  the  most  entangled. 
For  aught  I  know,  there  might  be  some  mix- 
ture of  unlucky  wit  at  the  bottom  of  such 
fracas: — for,  to  speak  the  truth,  Yorick  had 
an  invincible  dislike  and  opposition  in  his 
nature  to  gravity; — not  to  gravity  as  such: — 
for,  where  gravity  was  wanted,  he  would  be 
the  most  grave  or  serious  of  mortal  men  for 
days  and  weeks  together; — but  he  was  an 
enemy  to  the  affectation  of  it,  and  declared 
open  war  against  it  only  as  it  appeared  a  cloak 
for  ignorance  or  for  folly :  and  then,  whenever 
it  fell  in  his  way,  however  sheltered  and  pro- 
tected, he  seldom  gave  it  much  quarter. 

Sometimes,  in  his  wild  way  of  talking,  he 
would  say  that  gravity  was  an  arrant  scoun- 
drel, and  he  would  add — of  the  most  dan- 
gerous kind  too, — because  a  sly  one;  and  that, 
he  verily  believed,  more  honest,  well-meaning 
people  were  bubbled  out  of  their  goods  and 
money  by  it  in  one  twelvemonth  than  by 
pocket-picking  and  shop-lifting  in  seven.  In 
the  naked  temper  which  a  merry  heart  dis- 
covered, he  would  say  there  was  no  danger — 
but  to  itself: — whereas  the  very  essence  of 
gravity  was  design,  and  consequently  deceit : 
— it  was  a  taught  trick  to  gain  credit  of  the 
world  for  more  sense  and  knowledge  than  a 
man  was  worth;  and  that,  with  all  its  preten- 
sions, it  was  no  better,  but  often  woi-se,  than 
what  a  French  wnt  had  long  ago  defined  it, 
viz.  A  mT/sterious  carriage  of  the  body  to  cover 
the  defects  of  the  mind; — which  definition  of 
gravity  Yorick,  with  great  imprudence,  would 
say  deserved  to  be  written  in  lettere  of  gold. 

But,  in  plain  truth,  he  was  a  man  unhack- 
neyed and  unpractised  in  the  world,  and  was 
altogether  as  indiscreet  and  foolish  on  every 
other  subject  of  discouree  where  policy  is  wont 
to  impress  restraint.  Yorick  had  no  impres- 
sion but  one,  and  that  was  what  arose  from 
the  nature  of  the  deed  .spoken  of;  which  im- 
pression he  would  usually  translate  into  plain 


126 


LAUEENCE   STERNE. 


English,  without  any  periphrasis ;  and  too  oft 
without  much  distinction  of  either  person, 
time,  or  place ;  so  that  when  mention  was 
made  of  a  pitiful  or  an  imgeuerous  proceeding 
— he  never  gave  himself  a  moment's  time  to 
reflect  who  was  the  hero  of  the  piece,  what 
his  station,  or  how  far  he  had  power  to  hurt 
him  hereafter ; — but  if  it  was  a  dirty  action, 
— without  more  ado.  The  man  was  a  dirty 
fellow, — and  so  on.  And  as  his  comments 
had  usually  the  ill  fate  to  be  terminated  either 
in  a  boil  mot,  or  to  be  enlivened  throughout 
with  some  drollery  or  humour  of  expression, 
it  gave  wings  to  Yorick's  indiscretion.  In  a 
word,  though  he  never  sought,  yet,  at  the 
same  time,  as  he  seldom  shunned,  occasions  of 
saying  what  came  uppermost,  and  without 
much  ceremony — he  had  but  too  many  temp- 
tations in  life  of  scattering  his  wit  and  his 
humour,  his  gibes  and  his  jests,  about  him. — 
They  were  not  lost  for  want  of  gathering. 

What  were  the  consequences,  and  what  was 
Yorick's  catastrophe  thereupon,  you  will  read 
in  the  next  chapter. 

The  mortgager  and  mortgagee  differ,  the 
one  fi'om  the  other,  not  more  in  length  of  purse 
than  the  jester  and  jestee  do  in  that  of  memory. 
But  in  this  the  comparison  between  them  runs, 
as  the  scholiasts  call  it,  upon  all-four ; — which, 
by  the  by,  is  \\\)0\\  one  or  two  legs  more  than 
some  of  the  best  of  Homer's  can  pretend  to ; — 
namely,  That  the  one  raises  a  sum,  and  the 
other  a  laugh,  at  your  expense,  and  thinks  no 
more  about  it.  Interest,  however,  still  runs 
on  in  both  cases; — the  periodical  or  accidental 
payments  of  it  just  serving  to  keep  the 
memory  of  the  affair  alive ;  till,  at  length,  in 
some  evil  hour,  pop  comes  the  creditor  upon 
each,  and  by  demanding  principal  upon  the 
spot,  together  with  full  interest  to  the  very 
day,  makes  them  both  feel  the  full  extent  of 
their  obligations. 

As  the  reader  (for  I  hate  your  ifs)  has  a 
thorough  knowledge  of  human  nature,  I  need 
not  say  more  to  satisfy  him  that  my  hero 
could  not  go  on  at  this  rate  without  some 
slight  experience  of  these  incidental  mementos. 
To  speak  the  truth,  he  had  wantonly  involved 
himself  in  a  multitude  of  small  book-debts  of 
this  stamp,  wliich,  notwithstanding  Eugenius's 
frequent  advice,  he  too  much  disregarded; 
thinking  that,  as  not  one  of  them  was  con- 
tracted through  any  malignancy — but,  on  the 
contrary,  from  an  honesty  of  mind,  and  a  mere 
jocundity  of  liumour,  they  would  all  of  them 
be  crossed  out  in  course. 


Eugenius  would  never  admit  this;  and 
would  often  tell  him  that,  one  day  or  other, 
he  would  certainly  be  reckoned  with; — and 
he  would  often  add — in  an  accent  of  sorrowful 
apprehension  —  to  the  uttermost  mite.  To 
which  Yorick,  with  his  usual  carelessness  of 
heart,  would  as  often  answer  with  a  pshaw ! — 
and  if  the  subject  was  started  in  the  fields, — 
with  a  hop,  skip,  and  a  jump  at  the  end  of  it; 
but,  if  close  pent-uji  in  the  social  chinniey- 
corner,  where  the  culprit  was  barricadoed  in, 
with  a  table  and  a  couple  of  arm-chairs,  and 
could  not  so  readily  fly  off  in  a  tangent, 
Eugenius  would  then  go  on  with  his  lecture 
upon  discretion  in  words  to  this  purpose, 
though  somewhat  better  put  together : 

"  Trust  me,  dear  Yorick,  this  unwai-y  plea- 
santry of  thine  will  sooner  or  later  bring  thee 
into  scrapes  and  difficulties,  which  no  after-wit 
can  extricate  thee  out  of. — In  these  sallies,  too 
oft,  I  see  it  happens  that  a  person  laughed  at 
considers  himself  in  the  light  of  a  person  in- 
jured, with  all  the  rights  of  such  a  situation 
belonging  to  him;  and  when  thou  viewest  him 
in  that  light  too,  and  reckonest  up  his  friends, 
his  family,  his  kindred  and  allies — and  dost 
muster  up,  with  them,  the  many  recruits 
which  will  list  under  him  from  a  sense  of 
common  danger — 'tis  no  extravagant  arith- 
metic to  say  that,  for  eveiy  ten  jokes,  thou 
hast  got  a  hundred  enemies;  and  till  thou 
hast  gone  on,  and  raised  a  swarm  of  wasps 
about  thine  ears,  and  art  half  stung  to  death 
by  them,  thou  wait  never  be  convinced  it 
is  so. 

"I  cannot  suspect  it,  in  the  man  whom  I 
esteem,  that  there  is  the  least  spur  from  spleen 
or  malevolence  in  these  sallies. — I  believe  and 
know  them  to  be  truly  honest  and  sportive — 
but  consider,  my  dear  lad,  that  fools  cannot 
distingiiish  this,  and  that  knaves  will  not ;  and 
that  thou  knowest  not  what  it  is  either  to  pro- 
voke the  one,  or  to  make  merry  with  the  other; 
— whenever  they  associate  for  mutual  defence, 
depend  upon  it,  they  will  carry  on  the  war  in 
such  a  manner  against  thee,  my  dear  friend, 
as  to  make  thee  heartily  sick  of  it,  and  of  thy 
life  too. 

"  Revenge,  from  some  baneful  corner,  shall 
level  a  tale  of  dishonour  at  thee,  which  no  in- 
nocence of  heart,  nor  integrity  of  conduct, 
shall  set  right. — The  fortunes  of  thy  house 
shall  totter, — thy  character,  which  led  the  way 
to  them,  shall  bleed  on  every  side  of  it, — thy 
faith  questioned, — thy  words  belied,— thy  wit 
forgotten, — thy  learning  trampled  on.  To  wind 
up  the  last  scene  of  thy  tragedy,  Cruelty  and 


LAURENCE   STERNE. 


127 


Cowardice,  twin-ruffians,  hired  and  set  on  by 
Malice  in  the  dark,  sliall  strike  together  at  all 
tiiy  intirmities  and  mistakes :  -the  best  of  us, 
my  dear  lad,  lie  open  there ;-  and  trust  me — 
trust  me,  Yorick,  when,  to  gratify  a  private 
appetite,  it  is  once  resolved  upon  that  an  inno- 
cent and  a  helpless  creature  shall  be  sacrificed, 
'tis  an  easy  matter  to  pick  uj)  sticks  enough 
from  any  thicket  where  it  has  strayed  to  make 
a  fire  to  offer  it  up  with." 

Yorick  scarce  ever  heard  this  sad  vaticina- 
tion of  his  destiny  read  over  to  him  but  with 
a  tear  stealing  from  his  eye,  and  a  promissory 
look  attending  it  that  he  was  resolved,  for  the 
time  to  come,  to  ride  his  tit  with  more  sobriety. 
— But,  alas,  too  late  ! — a  grand  confederacy, 
with  *  *  *  and  *  *  *  at  the  head  of  it,  was 
formed  before  the  firat  prediction  of  it. — The 
whole  plan  of  attack,  just  as  Eugenius  had 
foreboded,  was  put  in  execution  all  at  once, — 
with  so  little  mercy  on  the  side  of  the  allies, — 
and  so  little  suspicion  on  Yorick  of  what  was 
carrying  on  against  him  —  that,  when  he 
thought,  good  easy  man  ! — full  surely,  prefer- 
ment was  o'ripening, — they  had  smote  his 
root, — and  then  he  fell,  as  many  a  worthy  man 
had  fallen  before  him. 

Yorick,  however,  fought  it  out,  with  all 
imaginable  gallantry,  for  some  time ;  till  over- 
poAvered  by  numbers,  and  worn  out  at  length 
by  the  calamities  of  the  war — but  more  so  by 
the  ungenerous  manner  in  which  it  was  carried 
on, — he  threw  down  the  sword ;  and,  though 
he  kept  up  his  spirits  in  appearance  to  the 
last — he  died,  nevertheless,  as  was  generally 
thought,  quite  broken-hearted. 

What  inclined  Eugenius  to  the  same  opinion 
was  as  follows : — 

A  few  hours  before  Yorick  breathed  his 
last,  Eugenius  stept  in  with  an  intent  to  take 
his  last  sight  and  last  farewell  of  him.  Upon 
his  drawing  Yorick's  curtain,  and  asking  how 
he  felt  himself,  Yorick,  looking  up  in  his  face, 
took  hold  of  his  hand — and,  after  tlianking 
him  for  the  many  tokens  of  his  friendship  to 
him,  for  which,  he  said,  if  it  was  their  fate  to 
meet  hereafter,  he  would  thank  him  again 
and  again, — he  told  him  he  was  within  a  few 
hours  of  giving  his  enemies  the  slip  for  ever. 
I  hope  not,  answered  Eugenius,  with  tears 
trickling  down  his  cheeks,  and  with  the  ten- 
derest  tone  that  ever  man  spoke, — I  hope  not, 
Yorick,  said  he.  Yorick  replied,  with  a  look 
up,  and  a  gentle  squeeze  of  Eugenius's  hand, 
and  that  was  all ; — but  it  cut  Eugenius  to  his 
heart.  Come,  come,  Yorick,  quoth  Eugenius, 
wiping  his  eyes,  and  summoning  up  the  man 


within  him,  my  dear  lad,  be  comforted, — let 
not  all  thy  spiiits  and  fortitude  forsake  thee 
at  this  crisis,  when  thou  most  wautest  them ; 
— who  knows  what  resources  are  in  store,  and 
what  the  power  of  God  may  yet  do  for  thee? 
Yorick  laid  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  and 
gently  shook  his  head.  For  my  part,  con- 
tinued Eugenius,  crying  bitterly  as  he  uttered 
the  words, — I  declare  I  know  not,  Yorick, 
how  to  part  with  thee,— and  would  gladly 
flatter  my  hopes,  added  Eugenius,  cheering 
up  his  voice,  that  there  is  still  enough  left  of 
thee  to  make  a  bishop,  and  that  I  may  live 
to  see  it.  I  beseech  thee,  Eugenius,  quoth 
Yorick,  taking  off'  his  night-cap  as  well  ;us  he 
could  with  his  left  hand,-  his  right  being  still 
grasped  close  in  that  of  Eugenius,—  I  beseech 
thee  to  take  a  view  of  my  head.  I  see  nothing 
that  ails  it,  replied  Eugenius.  Then,  alas! 
my  friend,  said  Yorick,  let  me  tell  you  that  it 
is  so  bruised  and  misshapened  with  the  blows 
which  *  *  *  and  *  *  *,  and  some  others, 
have  so  unhandsomely  given  me  in  the  dark, 
that  I  might  say,  with  Sancho  Panza,  that 
should  I  recover,  and  "  mitres  thereujjon  be 
suffered  to  rain  down  from  heaven  as  thick  as 
hail,  not  one  of  them  would  fit  it."  Yorick's 
last  breath  was  hanging  upon  his  trembling 
lips,  ready  to  depart,  as  he  uttered  this ; — yet 
still  it  was  uttered  with  something  of  a  Cer- 
vantic  tone ; — and,  as  he  spoke  it,  Eugenius 
could  perceive  a  stream  of  lambent  fire  lighted 
up  for  a  moment  in  his  eyes — faint  picture  of 
those  flashes  of  his  spirit  which  (as  Shakspere 
said  of  his  ancestor)  were  wont  to  set  the  table 
in  a  roar ! 

Eugenius  was  convinced  from  this  that  the 
heai-t  of  his  friend  was  broken ;  he  squeezed 
his  hand — and  then  walked  softly  out  of  the 
room,  weeping  as  he  walked.  Yorick  followed 
Eugenius  with  his  eyes  to  the  door; — he  then 
closed  them, — and  never  opened  them  more. 

He  lies  buried  in  a  corner  of  his  churchyanl, 

in  the  parish  of  ,  under  a  plain  marble 

slab,  which  his  friend  Eugenius,  by  leave  of 
his  executoi-s,  laid  upon  his  grave,  with  no 
more  than  these  three  words  of  inscription, 
serving  both  for  his  epitaph  and  elegy : 


^las,  poor  Jlorich! 


Ten  times  in  a  day  has  Yorick's  ghost  the 
consolation  to  hear  his  monumental  inscription 
read  over,  with  such  a  variety  of  plaintive 
tones  as  denote  a  general  pity  and  esteem  for 
him — a  footway  crossing  the  churchyai-d  clope 


128 


LAUEENCE   STERNE. 


by  the  side  of  his  grave, — not  a  passenger  goes 
by  without  stopping  to  cast  a  look  upon  it, — 
and  sighing,  as  he  walks  on, 

Alas,  poor  YORICK! 


THE   STORY   OF   LE   FEVRE. 

(FROM    "TRISTRAM    SHANDY.") 

It  was  not  till  my  uncle  Toby  had  knocked 
the  ashes  out  of  his  third  pipe  that  Corporal 
Trim  returned  from  the  inn,  and  gave  him 
the  following  account : — 

— I  despaired  at  first,  said  the  Corporal,  of 
being  able  to  bring  back  your  honour  any 
kind  of  intelligence  concerning  the  poor  sick 
Lieutenant. — Is  he  in  the  army,  then?  said  my 
uncle  Toby. — I'll  tell  your  honour,  replied  the 
Corporal,  everything  straight  forwards,  as  I 
learnt  it. — Then,  Trim,  I'll  fill  another  pipe, 
said  my  uncle  Toby,  and  not  inteiTupt  thee 
till  thou  hast  done ;  so  sit  down  at  thy  ease. 
Trim,  in  the  window-seat,  and  begin  thy  story 
again. — The  Corporal  made  his  old  bow,  which 
generally  spoke  as  plain  as  a  bow  could  speak 
it,  Your  honour  is  good: — and  having  done 
that,  he  sat  down,  as  he  was  ordered,  and 
began  the  story  to  my  uncle  Toby  over  again 
in  pretty  near  the  same  words. 

I  despaired  at  first,  said  the  Corporal,  of 
being  able  to  bring  back  any  intelligence  to 
your  honour,  about  the  Lieutenant  and  his 
son ; — for,  when  I  asked  where  his  servant 
was,  from  whom  I  made  myself  sure  of  know- 
ing everything  which  was  proper  to  be  asked, 
— [That's  a  right  distinction.  Trim,  said  my 
uncle  Toby]— I  was  answered,  an'  please  your 
honour,  that  he  had  no  servant  with  him ; 
that  he  had  come  to  the  inn  with  hired  horses, 
which,  upon  finding  himself  unable  to  proceed 
(to  join,  I  suppose,  the  regiment),  he  had  dis- 
missed the  morning  after  he  came. — If  I  get 
better,  my  dear,  said  he,  as  he  gave  his  pui-se 
to  his  son  to  pay  the  man,  we  can  hire  horses 
thence. — But  alas!  the  poor  gentleman  will 
never  go  hence,  said  the  landhuly  to  me,  for  I 
heard  the  death-watch  all  night  long;  and, 
when  he  dies,  the  youth,  his  son,  will  cer- 
tainly die  with  him,  for  he  is  broken-hearted 
already. 

I  was  hearing  this  account,  continued  the 
Corporal,  when  the  youth  came  into  the  kit- 
chen, to  order  the  thin  toast  the  landlord 
spoke  of : — But  I  will  do  it  for  my  father  my- 
self, said  the  youth. — Pray  let  me  save  you 


the  trouble,  young  gentleman,  said  I,  taking 
up  a  fork  for  the  purpose,  and  offering  him 
my  chair  to  sit  down  upon  by  the  fire,  whilst 
I  did  it. — I  believe  sir,  said  he,  very  modestly, 
I  can  please  him  best  myself. — I  am  sure,  said 
I,  his  honour  will  not  like  the  toast  the  worse 
for  being  toasted  by  an  old  soldier. — The 
youth  took  hold  of  my  hand,  and  instantly 
burst  into  tears. — Poor  youth  !  said  my  uncle 
Toby ;  he  has  been  bred  up  from  an  infant  in 
the  army ;  and  the  name  of  a  soldier.  Trim, 
sounded  in  his  ears  like  the  name  of  a  friend  ! 
— I  wish  I  had  him  here. 

— I  never,  in  the  longest  march,  said  the 
Corpoial,  had  so  great  a  mind  for  my  dinner, 
as  I  had  to  cry  with  him  for  company.  What 
could  be  the  matter  with  me,  an'  please  your 
honour? — Nothing  in  the  world,  Trim,  said 
my  uncle  Toby,  blowing  his  nose,  but  that 
thou  art  a  good-natured  fellow. 

— When  I  gave  him  the  toast,  continued 
the  Corporal,  I  thought  it  was  proper  to  tell 
him  I  was  Captain  Shandy's  servant,  and  that 
your  honour  (though  a  stranger)  was  extremely 
concerned  for  his  father;  and  that  if  there 
was  anything  in  your  house  or  cellar — [And 
thou  might'st  have  added  my  purse,  too,  said 
my  uncle  Toby] — he  was  heartily  welcome  to 
it. — He  made  a  very  low  bow  (which  was 
meant  to  your  honour)  but  no  answer ; — for 
his  heart  was  full ; — so  he  went  up  stairs  with 
the  toast. — I  warrant  you,  my  dear,  said  I,  as 
I  opened  the  kitchen-door,  your  father  will  be 
well  again.  Mr.  Yorick's  curate  was  smoking 
a  pipe  by  the  kitchen  fire ;  but  said  not  a 
word,  good  or  bad,  to  comfort  the  youth. — I 
thought  it  wrong,  added  the  Corporal. —  I 
think  so  too,  said  my  uncle  Toby. 

■ — When  the  Lieutenant  had  taken  his  glass 
of  sack  and  toast,  he  felt  himself  a  little 
revived,  and  sent  down  into  the  kitchen  to 
let  me  know  that,  in  about  ten  minutes,  he 
should  be  glad  if  I  would  step  up  stall's. — I 
believe,  said  the  landlord,  he  is  going  to  say 
his  prayers ;  for  there  was  a  book  laid  upon 
the  chair  by  his  bed-side,  and,  as  I  shut  the 
door,  I  saw  his  son  take  up  a  cushion. 

— I  thought,  said  the  Curate,  that  you 
gentlemen  of  the  army,  Mr.  Trim,  never  said 
your  prayers  at  all. — I  heard  the  poor  gentle- 
man say  his  prayere  last  night,  said  the  land- 
lady, very  devoutly,  and  with  my  own  ears, 
or  I  could  not  have  believed  it. — Are  you  sure 
of  it?  replied  the  Curate. — A  soldier,  an' 
please  your  reverence,  said  I,  prays  as  often 
(of  his  own  accord)  as  a  parson ;  and  when  he 
is  fighting  for  his  king,  and  for  his  own  life. 


LAURENCE    STERNE. 


129 


and  for  his  honour  too,  he  lias  the  most  reason 
to  pray  to  (iod  of  any  one  in  the  whole  world. 
— 'Twiis  well  said  of  thee,  Trim,  said  my  uncle 
Toby.^ — But  when  a  soldier,  said  I,  an'  please 
your  reverence,  has  been  standing  for  twelve 
hours  together  in  the  trenches,  up  to  his  knees 
in  cold  water — or  engaged,  said  I,  for  months 
together  in  long  and  dangerous  marches ; — 
harassed,  perhaps,  in  his  rear  to-day  ; — harass- 
ing others  to-morrow; — detached  here; — coun- 
termanded there ;  —  resting  this  night  out 
upon  his  arms; — ^beat  up  in  his  shirt  the 
next; — benumbed  in  his  joints; — perhaps 
without  straw  in  his  tent  to  kneel  on ; — he 
must  say  his  prayers  how  and  when  he  can. — I 
believe,  said  I, — for  I  was  piqued,  quoth  the 
Corporal,  for  the  reputation  of  the  army — I 
believe,  an'  please  your  reverence,  said  I,  that 
when  a  soldier  gets  time  to  pray — he  prays  as 
heartily  as  a  jtarson — though  not  with  all  his 
fuss  and  hypocrisy. — Thou  shouldest  not  have 
said  that.  Trim,  said  my  uncle  Toby — for 
God  only  knows  who  is  a  hypocrite,  and 
who  is  not.  At  the  great  and  general  review 
of  us  all,  Corporal,  at  the  day  of  judgment 
(and  not  till  then)  it  will  be  seen  who  have 
done  their  duties  in  this  world,  and  who 
have  not;  and  we  shall  be  advanced.  Trim, 
accordingly. — I  hope  we  shall,  said  Trim. — It 
is  in  the  Scriptiu-e,  said  my  uncle  Toby;  and 
I  will  show  it  thee  to-morrow.  In  the  mean 
time  we  may  depend  upon  it.  Trim,  for  our  com- 
fort, said  my  uncle  Toby,  that  God  Almighty 
is  so  good  and  just  a  Governor  of  the  world 
that,  if  we  have  but  done  our  duties  in  it,  it 
will  never  be  inquired  into  whether  we  have 
done  them  in  a  red  coat  or  a  black  one. — I 
hope  not,  said  the  Corjjoral. —  But  go  on. 
Trim,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  with  thy  story. — 

When  I  went  up,  continued  the  Corporal, 
into  the  Lieutenant's  room,  which  I  did  not 
do  till  the  expiration  of  the  ten  minutes, — he 
was  lying  in  his  bed,  with  his  head  raised 
upon  his  hand,  with  his  elbow  upon  the  pil- 
low, and  a  clean  white  cambric  handkerchief 
beside  it.  The  youth  was  just  stooping  down 
to  take  up  the  cushion,  upon  which  I  supposed 
he  had  been  kneeling; — the  book  was  laid 
upon  the  bed  ; — ^and,  as  he  arose,  in  taking  up 
the  cushion  with  one  hand,  he  reached  out  his 
other  to  take  it  away  at  the  same  time. — Let 
it  remain  there,  my  dear,  said  the  Lieuten- 
ant.— 

He  did  not  oflFer  to  speak  to  me  till  I  had 

walked  up  close  to  his  bed-side. — If  you  are 

Captain  Shandy's  servant,  said  he,  you  must 

present  my  thanks  to  your  master,  with  my 

Vol.  I. 


little  boy's  thanks  along  with  them,  for  his 
coui-tesy  to  me.  If  he  was  of  Leven's  said 
the  Lieutenant. — I  told  him  your  honour  was. 
— Then,  said  he,  I  served  three  campaigns 
with  him  in  Flanders,  and  remember  him ; 
but  'tis  most  likely,  as  I  had  not  the  honour 
of  any  acquaintance  with  him,  that  he  knows 
nothing  of  me.  You  will  tell  him,  however, 
that  the  pei-son  his  good-nature  luus  laid  under 
obligations  to  him  is  one  Le  Fevre,  a  Lieu- 
tenant in  Angus's; — but  he  knows  me  not, 
said  he,  a  second  time,  musing;  possibly  he 
may  my  story,  added  he. — Pray  tell  the  Cap- 
tain I  was  the  ensign  at  Breda  whose  wife 
was  most  unfortunately  killed  with  a  musket- 
shot,  as  she  lay  in  my  arms  in  my  tent. — I 
remember  the  story,  an'  please  your  honour, 
said  I,  very  well. — Do  you  so?  said  he,  wip- 
ing his  eyes  with  his  handkerchief, — then  well 
may  I. — In  saying  this,  he  drew  a  little  ring 
out  of  his  bosom,  which  seemed  tied  with  a 
black  riband  about  his  neck,  and  kissed  it 
twice. — Here,  Billy,  said  he;  the  boy  flew 
across  the  room  to  the  bed-side,  and  falling 
down  upon  his  knee,  took  the  ring  in  his 
hand,  and  kissed  it  too,  then  kissed  his 
father,  and  sat  down  upon  the  bed  and  wept. 

I  wish,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  with  a  deep 
sigh,  I  wish.  Trim,  I  was  asleep. 

Your  honour,  replied  the  Coi'j^oral,  is  too 
much  concerned — Shall  I  pour  your  honour 
out  a  glass  of  sack  to  your  pipe? — Do,  Trim, 
said  my  uncle  Toby. — 

I  remember,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  sighing 
again,  the  story  of  the  ensign  and  his  wife, 
with  a  circumstance  his  modesty  omitted; — 
and  particularly  well  that  he,  as  well  as  she, 
u23on  some  account  or  other  (I  forget  what) 
was  universally  pitied  by  the  whole  regiment ; 
— but  finish  the  story  thou  art  upon. — 'Tis 
finished  already,  said  the  Corporal, — for  I 
could  stay  no  longer;  so  wished  his  honour 
good  night.  Young  Le  Fevre  rose  from  off 
the  bed,  and  saw  me  to  the  bottom  of  the 
stairs ;  and,  as  we  went  down  together,  told 
me  that  they  had  come  from  Ireland,  and 
were  on  their  route  to  join  the  regiment  in 
Flanders. — But  alas !  said  the  Corporal,  the 
Lieutenant's  last  day's  march  is  over  ! — Then 
what  is  to  become  of  his  poor  boy  ]  cried  my 
uncle  Toby. 

It  was  to  my  uncle  Toby's  eternal  honour, 
— though  I  tell  it  only  for  the  sake  of  those 
who,  when  cooped  in  betwixt  a  natural  and  a 
positive  law,  know  not,  for  their  souls,  which 
way  in  the  world  to  turn  themselves, — that, 


130 


LAUKENCE   STERNE. 


notwithstanding  my  uncle  Toby  was  warmly 
engaged  at  that  time  in  carrying  on  the  siege 
of  Dendeimond,  parallel  with  tlie  Allies,  who 
pressed  theirs  on  so  vigorously  that  they  scarce 
allowed  him  time  to  get  his  dinner: — that 
nevertlieless  he  gave  up  Dendermond,  though 
he  had  already  made  a  lodgment  upon  the 
counterscarp; — and  bent  his  whole  thoughts 
towards  the  private  distresses  at  the  inn ;  and, 
except  that  he  ordered  the  garden  gate  to  be 
bolted  up,  by  which  he  might  be  said  to  have 
turned  the  siege  of  Dendermond  into  a  block- 
ade— he  left  Dendermond  to  itself — to  be 
relieved  or  not  by  the  French  king,  as  the 
French  king  thought  good ;  and  only  con- 
sidered how  he  himself  should  relieve  the  poor 
Lieutenant  and  his  son. 

— That  kind  Being,  who  is  a  friend  to  the 
friendless,  shall  recompense  thee  for  this — 

Thou  hast  left  this  matter  short,  said  my 
uncle  Toby  to  the  Corporal,  as  he  was  putting 
him  to  bed, — and  I  will  tell  thee  in  what, 
Trim. — .In  the  first  place,  when  thou  madest 
an  offer  of  my  services  to  Le  Fevre, — as  sick- 
ness and  travelling  are  both  expensive,  and 
thou  knewest  he  was  but  a  poor  lieutenant, 
with  a  son  to  subsist  as  weU  as  himself  out  of 
his  pay,  that  thou  didst  not  make  an  offer  to 
him  of  my  purse ;  because,  had  he  stood  in 
need,  thou  knowest.  Trim,  he  had  been  as 
welcome  to  it  as  myself. — Your  honour  knows, 
said  the  Corporal,  I  had  no  orders. — True, 
quoth  my  uncle  Toby,  thou  didst  very  right, 
as  a  soldier — but  certainly  very  wrong  as  a 
man. 

In  the  second  jilace,  for  which,  indeed,  thou 
hast  the  same  excuse,  continued  my  uncle 
Toby, — when  thou  offeredst  him  whatever  was 
in  my  house — thou  shouldst  have  offered  him 
my  house  too.  A  sick  brother-officer  should 
have  the  best  quarters.  Trim ;  and  if  we  had 
him  with  us,  we  could  tend  and  look  to  him. 
Thou  art  an  excellent  nurse  thyself.  Trim ; 
and  what  with  thy  care  of  him,  and  the  old 
woman's,  and  his  boy's,  and  mine  together,  we 
might  recruit  him  again  at  once,  and  set  him 
upon  his  legs. 

In  a  fortnight  or  three  weeks,  added  my 
imcle  Toby,  smiling,  he  miglit  march. — He 
will  never  march,  an'  please  your  honour,  in 
this  world,  said  the  Corporal. — He  will  march, 
said  my  uncle  Toby,  rising  up  from  the  side 
of  the  bed  with  one  shoe  off. — An'  please  your 
honour,  said  the  Corporal,  he  will  never  march 
but  to  his  grave.-  -He  shall  march,  cried  my 
uncle  Toby,  marching  the  foot  wliich  had  a 
shoe  on,  though  without  advancing  an  inch, 


he  shall  march  to  his  regiment. — He  cannot 
stand  it,  said  the  Corporal. — He  shall  be  sup- 
ported, said  my  uncle  Toby. — He'll  drop  at 
last,  said  the  Corporal,  and  what  will  become 
of  his  boy? — He  shall  not  drop,  said  my  uncle 
Toby,  firmly. — A  well-a-day !  do  what  we 
can  for  him,  said  Trim,  maintaining  his  point, 
the  poor  soul  will  die. — He  shall  not  die,  by 
G — ,  cried  my  uncle  Toby. 

— The  accusing  spirit,  which  flew  up  to  Hea- 
ven's chancery  with  the  oath,  blushed  as  he 
gave  it  in; — and  the  recording  angel,  as  he 
wrote  it  down,  dropped  a  tear  upon  the  word, 
and  blotted  it  out  for  ever. 

The  sun  looked  bright  the  morning  after, 
to  every  eye  in  the  village  but  Le  Fevre's  and 
his  afflicted  son's ;  the  hand  of  death  pressed 
heavy  upon  his  eyelids,  and  hardly  could 
the  wheel  at  the  cistern  turn  round  its  circle 
— when  my  uncle  Toby,  who  had  risen  up  an 
hour  before  his  wonted  time,  entered  the 
Lieutenant's  room,  and,  without  preface  or 
apology,  sat  himself  down  upon  the  chair  by 
the  bed-side,  and  opened  the  curtain  in  the 
manner  an  old  fz-iend  and  brother -officer 
would  have  done  it ;  and  asked  him  how  he 
did, — how  he  had  rested  in  the  night, — what 
was  his  complaint, — where  was  his  pain, — and 
what  he  could  do  to  help  him ; — and,  with- 
out giving  him  time  to  answer  any  one  of 
these  enquiries,  went  on,  and  told  him  of  the 
little  plan  which  he  had  been  concerting  with 
the  Corporal  the  night  before  for  him. 

— You  shall  go  home  directly,  Le  Fevre, 
said  my  uncle  Toby,  to  my  house, — and  we'll 
send  for  a  doctor  to  see  what's  the  matter ; — 
and  we'll  have  an  apothecary ;  and  the  Cor- 
poral shall  be  your  nurse ;  and  I'll  be  your 
servant,  Le  Fevre. — 

Before  my  uncle  Toby  had  half  finished 
the  kind  offers  he  was  making  to  his  father, 
had  the  son  insensibly  pressed  up  close  to  his 
knees,  and  had  taken  hold  of  the  breast  of 
his  coat,  and  was  pulling  it  towards  him. 
The  blood  and  spirits  of  Le  Fevre,  which 
were  waxing  cold  and  slow  within  him,  and 
were  retreating  to  their  last  citadel,  the 
heart,  rallied  back, — the  film  forsook  his  eyes 
for  a  moment ;— he  looked  up  wistfully  in  my 
uncle  Toby's  face ; — then  cast  a  look  upon  his 
boy  ;— and  that  ligament,  fine  as  it  was — was 
never  broken  ! — 

Nature  instantly  ebb'd  again  ;— the  film  re- 
turned to  its  place  ; — the  pulse  fluttered  ; — 
stopped ; — went  on, — throbbed, — stopped. 


MY    UNCLH    TOBY    SAT    HIMSHLF   DOWN    UPON    THE    CHAIR 

BY    THE    BEDSIDE 


PHILIP   FRANCIS. 


131 


PHILIP    FRANCIS. 


BoKN  1719  — Died  1773. 


.  [Philip  Francis,  so  well  known  as  a  translator 
of  Horace,  was  born  in  Dublin  in  1719.     His 
father,  the  Rev.  John  Francis,  D.D.,  a  man 
of  some  ability,  was  for  a  time  rector  of  St. 
Mary's,  Dublin,  and  afterwards  Dean  of  Lis- 
more.    In  due  course  youn<,'  Philip  entered  and 
graduated  at  Trinity  College.     After  this  he 
took  holy  orders;  and  in  1750  removed  to  i^^ug- 
laud,  where  he  set  up  an  academy  at  Esher  in 
Surrey,  in  which,  among  other  pupils,  he  had 
his  son,  afterwards  Sir  Philip,  and  Gibbon  the 
celebrated  historian.      After  a  time,  by  the 
influence  of  Lord  Holland,  he  obtained  the 
rectory  of  Barrow  in  Suffolk,  and,  as  a  reward 
for  some  literary  support  he  had  rendered  the 
government,  he  was  appointed  to  the  chap- 
laincy of  Chelsea  Hospital.     Two  years  after 
his  arrival  in  England  appeared  his  first  work 
of  any  importance,  Eugenia,  a  tragedy;  and  in 
1754  this  was  followed  by  Constantine,  a  tra- 
ge<ly.     Both  plays  are  carefully  and  correctly 
written,  but  are  wanting  somewhat  in  the  fire 
of  genius.     About  this  time  he  was  a  constant 
visitor  at  Holland  House,  and  was  appointed 
chaplain  to  Lady  Holland. 

In  1743  appeared  his  gi-eat  work,  which 
still  stands  fii-st  among  translations  of  Horace. 
It  was  received  not  only  with  favour  but  en- 
thusiasm by  the  whole  learned  and  read- 
ing world,  and  Dr.  Johnson  in  speaking  of  it 
said,  "  The  lyrical  part  of  Horace  can  never 
be  properly  translated ;  so  much  of  the  ex- 
cellence is  in  the  numbers  and  the  expression. 
Francis  has  done  it  the  best.  I'll  take  his, 
five  out  of  six,  against  them  all."  Soon  after 
this  appeared  his  translation  of  Demosthenes, 
which  was  also  successful,  but  not  to  the  same 
extent  as  Horace.  This  was  his  last  extant 
work,  for  the  rest  of  his  life  produced  nothing 
except  political  ephemera  in  the  intei-est  of 
Henry  Fox  and  his  party,  which  of  course  are 
not  now  recognizable,  and  we  fear  not  of  much 
value  if  recognized.  He  was  also  one  of  the 
editors  of  the  daily  Gazette  in  the  pay  of  the 
government,  and  in  1761  he  was  appointed  rec- 
tor of  Chilham  in  Kent.  He  suffered  severely 
from  })alsy  for  several  years  before  his  death, 
which  took  place  at  Bath,  in  March,  1773. 

The  most  available  edition  of  Francis's 
Horace  is  that  issued  by  A.  &  J.  Valpy,  in  two 
volumes,  in  the  Family  Classical  Library.'] 


HORACE'S  EPISTLE  to  ARISTIUS  FUSCUS 
IN  PRAISE  OF  A  COUNTRY  LIFE. 

To  Fuscus,  who  in  city  sports  delights, 
A  country  bard  witii  gentle  greetings  writes: 
In  this  we  ciifler,  but  in  all  beside, 
Like  twin-born  brotiiers,  are  our  souls  allied, 
And  as  a  pair  of  fondly  constant  doves, 
What  one  dislikes  the  other  disapproves. 
You  keep  the  nest,  I  love  the  rural  mead, 
The  brook,  the  mossy  rock,  and  woody  glade, 
In  short,  I  live  and  reign  whene'er  I  fly 
The  joys  you  vaunt  with  rapture  to  the  sky, 
And  like  a  .slave  from  the  priest's  service  fled, 
I  nauseate  honey'd  cakes,  and  long  for  bread. 

Would  you  to  nature's  laws  obedience  yield; 
Would  you  a  house  for  health  or  pleasure  build, 
Where  is  there  such  a  situation  found 
As  where  the  country  spreads  its  blessings  round? 
Where  is  the  intemperate  winter  less  severe? 
Or,  when  the  sun  ascending  fires  the  year. 
Where  breathes  a  milder  zephyr  to  assuage 
The  Dog-star's  fury  or  the  Lion's  rage? 
Where  do  less  envious  cares  disturb  our  rest? 
Or  are  the  fields,  in  nature's  colours  dress'd, 
Less  grateful  to  the  smell,  or  to  the  sight, 
Than  the  rich  floor  with  inlaid  marble  bright? 
Is  water  purer  from  the  bursting  lead, 
Than  gently  murmuring  down  its  native  bed? 
Among  your  columns,  rich  with  various  dyes. 
Unnatural  woods  with  awkward  art  arise: 
You  praise  the  house  whose  situation  yields 
An  open  prospect  to  the  distant  fields; 
For  Nature,  driven  out  with  proud  disdain, 
All-powerful  goddess,  will  return  again. 
Return  in  silent  triumph  to  deride 
The  weak  attempts  of  luxury  and  pride. 

The  man  who  cannot,  with  judicious  eye, 
Discern  the  fleece  that  drinks  the  Tyrian  dye 
From  the  pale  batian;  yet  shall  ne'er  sustain 
A  loss  so  touching,  of  such  heartfelt  pain, 
As  he  who  can't,  with  sense  of  happier  kind, 
Distinguish  truth  from  falsehood  in  the  mind. 

They  who  in  fortune's  smiles  too  much  delight. 
Shall  tremble  when  the  goddess  t:ikes  her  flight; 
For  if  her  gifts  our  fonder  passions  gain, 
The  frail  possession  we  resign  with  pain. 

Then  fly  from  grandeur  and  the  haughty  great. 
The  cottage  offers  a  secure  retreat. 
Where  you  may  make  that   heartfelt  bliss  your 

own, 
To  kings  and  favourites  of  kings  unknown. 
A  lordly  stag,  arm'd  with  superior  force, 


132 


JOHN  CUNNINGHAM. 


Drove  from  their  common  field  a  vauquished  horse, 
Who  for  revenge  to  man  liis  strength  enslaved, 
Took  up  his  rider,  and  the  bit  received; 
But  though  he  conquer'd  in  the  martial  strife, 
He  felt  his  rider's  weight,  and  champed  the  bit 
for  life. 
So  he  who  poverty  with  horror  views, 
Nor  frugal  Nature's  bounty  knows  to  use, 
Who  sells  his  freedom  in  exchange  for  gold 
(Freedom  for  mines  of  wealth  too  cheaply  sold), 
Shall  make  eternal  servitude  his  fate, 


And  feel  a  haughty  master's  galling  weight. 

Our  fortunes  and  our  shoes  are  near  allied, 
Pinched  in  the  strait,  we  stumble  in  the  wide. 
Cheerful  and  wise,  your  present  lot  enjoy, 
And  on  my  head  your  just  rebukes  employ. 
If  e'er,  forgetful  of  my  former  self, 
I  toil  to  raise  unnecessary  pelf. 
Gold  is  the  slave  or  tyrant  of  the  soul, 
Unworthy  to  command,  it  better  brooks  control. 

These  lines  behind  Vacuna's  fane  I  penn'd, 
Sincerely  blessed,  but  that  I  want  my  friend. 


JOHN    CUNNINGHAM. 


BoBN  1729  — Died  1773. 


[John  Cuimingham  was  the  son  of  a  well- 
known  wine  merchant  of  Dublin,  and  was 
born  in  that  city  in  1729.  At  a  very  early 
age,  indeed  before  he  completed  his  twelfth 
year,  his  poetical  genius  began  to  be  apparent, 
and  he  wrote  several  pieces  which  ai:)peai-ed 
in  the  Dublin  papers.  These  displayed  such 
ability  that  he  was  soon  a  hero  in  at  least 
his  own  circle,  and  they  are  yet  occasionally 
sung  by  the  lower  classes  of  Dublin  and  its 
neighbourhood,  though  the  name  of  the  author 
is  unknown  to  the  singer.  At  the  age  of 
seventeen  he  produced  a  farce  entitled  Love  in 
a  Mist,  which  was  successful  so  far  as  Dublin 
was  concerned,  and  which  Garrick  is  said  to 
have  plagiarized  to  produce  his  Lying  Valet. 
Before  twenty  Cunningham  became  an  itiner- 
ant player,  in  which  occupation  he  passed  many 
years  of  his  life.  In  his  wanderings  he  be- 
came closely  attached  to  Newcastle-on-Tyne, 
where  lie  had  always  been  well  received,  and 
which  he  learned  to  speak  of  as  his  "  Home." 
Thither  he  i-etired  after  leaving  the  stage  in 
1763,  and  there  he  issued  his  volume  of  poems, 
"  chiefly  jjastoral,"  a  style  of  composition  in 
which  he  excelled,  and  which  he  was  encour- 
aged to  cultivate  by  Shenstone.  The  pastorals 
have  the  delicate  artificiality  which  belongs 
to  their  species,  and  withal  a  true  and  pure 
note  of  poetry.  The  book  was  successful,  and 
highly  praised  by  competent  judges.  John- 
son says  of  it,  "  His  poems  have  peculiar 
sweetness  and  elegance;  his  sentiments  are 
generally  natural,  and  his  language  simple 
and  appropiiate  to  his  subject."  After  pro- 
ti'acted  sutt'eiing  the  poet  died,  September 
18th,  1773,  in  the  forty-fourth  year  of  his 
age.] 


M  O  E  N  I  N  G. 

In  the  barn  the  tenant  cock. 
Close  to  Partlet  perched  on  high. 
Briskly  crows  (the  shepherd's  clock), 
Jocund  that  the  morning's  nigh. 

Swiftly  from  the  mountain's  brow 
Shadows,  nurs'd  by  night,  retire: 
And  the  peeping  sunbeam,  now, 
Paints  with  gold  the  village  spire. 

Philomel  forsakes  the  thorn. 
Plaintive  where  she  prates  at  night, 
And  the  lark,  to  meet  the  morn, 
Soars  beyond  the  shepherd's  sight. 

From  the  low-roof'd  cottage  ridge 
See  the  chatt'ring  swallow  spring; 
Darting  through  the  one-arched  bridge, 
Quick  she  dips  her  dappled  wing. 

Now  the  pine-tree's  waving  top 
Gently  greets  the  morning  gale: 
Kidlings,  now,  begin  to  crop 
Daisies  in  the  dewy  dale. 

From  the  balmy  sweets,  uncloy'd 
(Restless  till  her  task  be  done). 
Now  the  busy  bee's  employ'd 
Sipping  dew  before  the  sun. 

Trickling  tlirough  the  creviced  rock 
Where  the  limpid  stream  distils, 
Sweet  refreshment  waits  the  flock 
When  'tis  sun-drove  from  the  hills. 

Colin,  for  tlie  promis'd  corn 
(Ere  the  harvest  hopes  are  ripe), 
.\nxious  hears  the  huntsman's  horn 
Boldly  sounding,  drown  his  pipe. 


JOHN   CUNNINGHAM. 


133 


Sweet, — 0  sweet  the  wail)linpf  throng 
Ou  the  white  emblossom'd  spray! 
Nature's  univensal  song 
Echoes  to  the  rising  day. 


NOON. 


Fervid  on  the  glitt'ring  flood, 
Now  the  noontide  radiance  glows : 
Dropping  o'er  its  infant  bud, 
Not  a  dewdrop's  left  the  rose. 

By  the  brook  the  shepherd  dines; 
From  the  fierce  meridian  heat 
Sheltered  by  the  brandling  pines, 
Pendent  o'er  his  grassy  seat. 

Now  the  flock  forsakes  the  glade, 
Where,  uncheck'd,  the  sunbeams  fall, 
Sure  to  find  a  pleasing  shade 
By  the  ivy'd  abbey  wall. 

Echo,  iu  her  aiiy  round, 
O'er  the  river,  rock,  and  hill. 
Cannot  catch  a  single  sound 
Save  the  clack  of  yonder  mill. 

Cattle  court  the  zephyrs  bland. 
Where  the  streamlet  wanders  cool. 
Or  with  languid  silence  stand 
Midway  in  the  marshy  pool. 

But  from  mountain,  dell,  or  stream, 
Not  a  flutt'ring  zephyr  springs. 
Fearful  lest  the  noontide  beam 
Scorch  its  soft,  its  silken  wings. 

Not  a  leaf  has  leave  to  stir. 
Nature's  luU'd — serene — and  still; 
Quiet  e'en  the  shepherd's  cur. 
Sleeping  on  the  heath-clad  hill. 

Languid  is  the  landscape  round, 
Till  the  fresh  descending  shower, 
Orateful  to  the  thirsty  ground. 
Raises  every  fainting  flower. 

Now  the  hill — the  hedge — is  green, 
Now  the  warbler's  throat's  in  tune! 
Blithsome  is  the  verdant  scene. 
Brightened  by  the  beams  of  noon! 


EVENING. 


Now  lie  hides  behind  the  hill, 
Sinking  from  a  golden  sky. 
Can  the  pencil's  mimic  skill 
Copy  the  refulgent  dye? 

Trudging  as  the  plowmen  go 
(To  the  smoking  hamlet  bound). 
Giant-like  their  shadows  grow. 
Lengthened  o'er  the  level  ground. 

Where  the  rising  forest  spreads. 
Shelter  for  the  lordly  dome. 
To  their  high-built  airy  beds. 
See  the  rooks  returning  home! 

As  the  lark,  with  varied  tune, 
Carols  to  the  evening  loud, 
Mark  the  mild  resplendent  moon 
Breaking  through  a  parted  cloud! 

Now  the  hermit  howlet  peeps 
From  the  barn  or  twisted  brake; 
And  the  blue  mist  swiftly  creeps. 
Curling  on  the  silver  lake. 

As  the  trout  in  speckled  pride 
Playful  from  its  bosom  springs. 
To  the  banks  a  ruffled  tide 
Verges  in  successive  rings. 

Tripping  through  the  silken  grass, 
O'er  the  path-divided  dale, 
Mark  the  rose-complexion'd  lass. 
With  her  well-poised  milking-pail. 

Linnets,  with  unnumber'd  notes, 
And  the  cuckoo  bird  with  two. 
Tuning  sweet  their  mellow  throats. 
Bid  the  setting  sun  adieu. 


O'er  the  heath  the  heifer  strays 
Free; — the  furrow'd  task  is  done, 
Now  the  village  windows  blaze, 
Burnished  by  the  setting  sun. 


THE   ANT   AND   THE   CATEEPILLAK. 

A   KABLE. 

As  an  Ant,  of  his  talents  superiorly  vain. 
Was  trotting  with  consequence  over  the  plain, 
A  Worm,  in  his  progress  remarkably  slow, 
Cry'd — "Bless  your  good  M'orship  wherever  you 

go; 
I  hope  your  great  mightiness  won't  take  it  ill, 
I  pay  my  respects  with  a  hearty  good-will." 
With  a  look  of  contempt  and  impertinent  pride, 
"Begone,  you  vile  reptile!"  his  antship  replied; 
"Go — go  and  lament  your  contemptible  state. 
But  first — look  at  me — see  my  limbs  how  com- 
plete! 
I  guide  all  my  motion.s  with  freedom  and  ea.se. 
Run  backward  and   forward,    and   turn  when   1 
please: 


134 


JOHN   CUNNINGHAM. 


Of  Nature  (grown  weary)  you  shocking  esaay! 
I  apurn  you  thus  from  me — crawl  out  of  my  way. " 

The  reptile,  insulted  and  vexed  to  the  soul, 
Crept  onwards  and  hid  himself  close  in  his  hole; 
But  Nature,  determined  to  end  his  distress. 
Soon  sent  him  abroad  in  a  Butterfly's  dress. 

Ere  long  the  proud  Ant,  as  repassing  the  road 
(Fatigued  from  the  harvest,  and  tugging  his  load), 
The  beau  on  a  violet  bank  he  beheld, 
Whose  vesture  in  glory  a  monarch's  excell'd; 
His  plumage  expanded — 'twas  rare  to  behold 
So  lovely  a  mixture  of  purple  and  gold. 

The  Ant,  quite  amazed  at  a  figure  so  gay, 
Bow'd  low  with  respect,  and  was  trudging  away. 
"Stop,    friend,"   says  the   Butterfly — "don't  be 

surprised, 
I  once  was  the  reptile  you  spurn'd  and  despis'd; 
But  now  I  can  mount,  in  the  sunbeams  I  play, 
While  you  must  for  ever  drudge  on  in  your  way. " 

Moral. 

A  wretch,  though  to-day  he's  o'erloaded  with 
sorrow. 

May  soar  above  those  that  oppress'd  him — to- 
morrow. 


THE   HOLIDAY   GOWN. 

In  holiday  gown,  and  my  new-fangled  hat, 
Last  Monday  I  tript  to  the  fair, 
I  held  up  my  head,  and  I'll  tell  you  for  what, 
Brisk  Roger  I  guess'd  would  be  there. 

He  woos  me  to  marry  whenever  we  meet, 
There's  honey  sure  dwells  on  his  tongue: 
He  hugs  me  so  close,  and  he  kisses  so  sweet, 
I'd  wed — if  I  were  not  too  young. 

Fond  Sue,  I'll  assure  you,  laid  hold  on  the  boy 
(The  vixen  would  vain  be  his  bride), 
Some  token  she  claim'd,  either  ribbon  or  toy, 
And  swore  that  she'd  not  be  deny'd: 

A  top-knot  he  bought  her,  and  garters  of  green ; 
Pert  Susan  was  cruelly  stung: 
I  hate  her  so  much,  that,  to  kill  her  with  spleen, 
I'd  wed — if  I  were  not  too  young. 

He  whispered  such  soft,  pretty  things  in  mine  ear! 
He  flattered,  he  promised,  and  swore! 
Such  trinkets  he  gave  me,  such  laces  and  gear. 
That,  trust  me, — my  pockets  ran  o'er: 

Some  ballads  he  bought  me,   the  best  he  could 

find, 
And  sweetly  their  burthen  he  sung; 


Good  faith,  he's  so  handsome,  so  witty,  and  kind, 
I'd  wed — if  I  were  not  too  young. 

The  sun  was  just  setting,  'twas  time  to  retire 
(Our  cottage  was  distant  a  mile), 
I  rose  to  begone — Ro  er  bow'd  like  a  squire, 
And  handed  me  over  the  stile: 

His  arm  he  threw  round  me — love  laughed  in  his 

eye, 
He  led  me  the  meadows  among. 
There  prest  me  so  close,  I  agreed,  with  a  sigh, 
To  wed — for  I  was  not  too  young. 


A  PASTORAL. 


Her  sheep   had   in  clusters  crept   close   by  the 

grove, 
To  hide  from  the  rigours  of  day; 
And  Phillis  herself,  in  a  woodbine  alcove. 
Among  the  fresh  violets  lay: 
A  youngling,  it  seems,  had  been  stole  from  its 

dam 
('Twixt  Cupid  and  Hymen  a  plot), 
That  Corydon  might,  as  he  searched  for  his  lamb, 
Arrive  at  this  critical  spot. 

As  through  the  gay  hedge   for  his  lambkin  he 

peeps, 
He  saw  the  sweet  maid  with  surprise; 
"Ye  gods,  if  so  killing,"  he  cried,  "when  she 

sleeps, 
I'm  lost  when  she  opens  her  eyes! 
To  tarry  much  longer  would  hazard  my  heart, 
I'll  onwards  my  lambkin  to  trace:" 
In  vain  honest  Corydon  strove  to  depart, 
For  love  had  him  nail'd  to  the  place. 

"Hush,   hush'd  be  these  birds,   what  a  bawling 

they  keep," 
He  cried,  "you're  too  loud  on  the  spray. 
Don't  you  see,  foolish  lark,   that  the  charmer's 

asleep; 
You'll  wake  her  as  sure  as  'tis  day: 
How  dare  that  fond   butterfly  touch   the  sweet 

maid ! 
Her  cheek  he  mistakes  for  the  rose; 
I'd  put  him  to  death,  if  I  was  not  afraid 
My  boldness  would  break  her  repose." 

Young  Phillis  look'd  up  with  a  languishing  smile, 

"  Kind  shepherd,"  she  said,  "you  mistake; 

1  laid  myself  down  just  to  rest  me  awhile. 

But,  trust  me,  have  still  been  awake." 

The  shepherd  took  courage,  advanc'd  with  a  bow, 

He  placed  himself  close  by  her  side, 

And  managed  the  matter,  I  cannot  tell  how. 

But  yesterday  made  her  his  bride. 


PATRICK   DELANY. 


135 


PATRICK    DELANY. 


Born  1686  — Dikd  1768. 


[Patrick  Delany,  D.D.,  celebrated  as  a  wit 
and  man  of  learning,  fit  to  sit  side  by  side 
with  Swift  and  Gay,  Pojie  and  Steele,  was 
born  of  luinible  jjarents  in  the  year  1686. 
His  father  was  at  firet  a  domestic  in  the  house 
of  Sir  John  Rennel,  an  Irish  judge,  but  after- 
w'ards  becoming  a  tenant  farmer  in  a  small 
way,  used  every  effort  to  have  his  son  educated. 
In  this  he  succeeded,  and  had  the  satisfaction 
of  seeing  his  beloved  Patrick  at  the  proper 
age  enter  as  a  sizar  in  Trinity  College.  In 
due  course  young  Delany  took  the  usual  de- 
grees, and  w;us  after  a  time  chosen  a  fellow  of 
the  college.  Before  this  he  had  become  ac- 
quainted with  Swift,  who,  with  a  strong  recom- 
mendation, introduced  him  to  Lord  Cai'teret 
on  that  nobleman's  arrival  in  Ireland  as  lord- 
lieutenant.  Lord  Carteret  soon  became  so 
pleased  with  the  charm  of  Delany's  manner 
and  conversation  that  he  had  him  almost 
constantly  at  the  castle.  At  this  time  his 
fellowship  and  the  fees  of  his  pujjils  brought 
him  in  about  XIOOO  a  year,  but,  being  of  a 
hot  temper,  he  got  into  a  dispute  in  which 
he  took  the  weaker  side,  and  was  forced  to 
apologize  to  the  provost  of  the  college.  This 
made  his  position  irksome,  and  he  would  gladly 
have  accepted  a  place  with  less  emolument. 
In  1725  he  was  presented  to  the  parish  of 
St.  John,  and  a  royal  dispensation  became 
necessary  to  enable  him  to  hold  the  benefice 
along  with  his  fellowship.  Here  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Dublin  and  Primate  Boulter,  worked 
on  by  his  enemies,  interfered,  and  the  dispen- 
sation was  refused.  However,  in  1727  he 
resigned  his  fellowship,  and  the  university 
presented  him  with  a  living  in  the  north.  Lord 
Carteret  promoted  him  to  the  chancelloi-ship 
of  Christ  Church,  and  in  1730  gave  him  a 
prebend  in  St.  Patrick's  Cathedral. 

In  1729,  a  year  before  this  last  event, 
Delany  began  a  paper  called  The  Tribune, 
which  was  continued  for  some  twenty  num- 
l)ers.  In  1731  he  visited  Loudon  to  arrange 
for  the  publication  of  his  most  important  work. 
Revelation  Examined  with  Candour,  the  first 
volume  of  which  appeared  in  1732.  While  in 
London  he  married  Mrs.  Tenison,  a  widow 
lady  of  his  own  country  with  a  large  fortune. 
On  his  return  to  Dublin  he  showed  his  love 
for  the  university  by  presenting  its  authorities 


with  a  sum  of  money  sufficient  to  enable  them 
to  distribute  £20  a  year  among  the  needier 
students.  In  1734  appeared  the  second  volume 
of  his  Revelation  Examined,  which  w;is  so  well 
received  that  a  third  edition  had  to  be  issued 
before  the  end  of  1735.  In  1738  appeared  his 
most  curious  work,  ^'■Reflections  on  Polygamy, 
and  the  Encouragement  given  to  that  Practice 
in  the  Scriptures  of  the  Old  Testament."  His 
next  work  was  J  ?i  Historical  Account  of  the  Life 
and  Reign  of  David,  King  of  Israel,  the  fii-st 
volume  of  which  appeared  in  1740,  and  the 
second  and  third  in  1742. 

In  1741  Delany's  fii'st  wife  died,  and  in 
1743  he  married  Mrs.  Pendai'ves,  the  chaim- 
ing  and  never-to-be-forgotten  Mrs.  Delany 
of  the  Memoirs.  In  1744  he  was  preferred 
to  the  Deanery  of  Down,  and  the  same  year 
published  sermons  on  the  Social  Duties  of  Life. 
A  second  edition  was  called  for  in  1747,  when 
he  added  to  the  original  fifteen  sermons  five 
more  on  the  Vices.  In  1748  appeared  his 
pamphlet  on  the  Divine  Original  of  Tythes, 
after  the  production  of  which  he  seems  to  have 
rested  for  a  time,  as  if  its  dialectic  subtleties 
had  been  rather  much  for  him.  He  was  drawn 
from  his  retirement  by  the  publication  of  the 
Earl  of  Orrery's  Remarks  on  the  Life  and 
Writings  of  Swift,  a  work  contemptible  in  point 
of  style,  and  in  which  the  great  dean  was 
assailed  all  through  as  if  by  one  who  wished 
yet  feared  to  strike.  He  immediately  issued 
a  pamphlet,  Critiques  on  Orrery's  Life  of 
Swift,  in  defence  of  his  friend,  which  was 
highly  successful,  and  in  which  a  better  idea 
of  the  dean  and  his  works  can  be  obtained 
than  in  any  work  previous  to  the  capital  life 
by  Sir  Walter  Scott.  In  this  year  (1754)  he 
published  another  volume  of  sermons,  chiefly 
practical.  These  were  considered  highly  valu- 
able, two  of  them  on  the  folly,  guilt,  and  ab- 
surdity of  duelling  being  frequently  quoted 
and  reprinted.  In  1757  he  began  a  periodical 
called  The  Humanist,  which  ended  with  the 
fifteenth  number,  and  in  1761  he  published 
several  additional  sermons  and  a  tract  entitled 
An  Humble  Apology  for  Christian  Orthodoxy. 
In  1763,  after  the  long  interval  of  nearly 
thirty  yeai's  from  the  appearance  of  the  first 
volume  of  Revelation  E.vamined  witli  Candour, 
he  completed  and   puljlished  the  third  and 


136 


PATRICK   DEL  ANY. 


final  volume  of  that  work.  In  1766  he  jiub- 
iished  his  last  work,  Eighteen  Discourses,  many 
of  which  were  republished  in  1791  in  a  popular 
work,  entitled  Family  Lectures.  In  1768  Dr. 
Delany  was  at  Bath  for  the  benefit  of  his 
health,  and  there,  in  May  of  that  year,  he  died, 
iu  the  eighty-third  year  of  his  age. 

In  private  life  Dr.  Delany  was  remarkable 
for  the  wit,  simplicity,  hospitality,  and  gen- 
erosity of  his  character.  Of  his  works  one 
Clitic  says  that  they  are  "  too  fanciful  and 
speculative  to  be  useful  to  the  cause  of  religion. 
His  style  also,"  continues  this  critic,  "  was  too 
florid  and  declamatory,  more  likely  to  dazzle 
than  to  convince."  Another  critic  says  that 
the  third  volume  of  liis  great  work  exhibits 
"  numerous  instances  of  the  prevalence  of  im- 
agination over  judgment."  The  same  critic, 
however,  in  speaking  of  his  Life  of  David, 
says  that  "  it  is  an  ingenious  and  learned  per- 
formance. It  is  written  with  spirit;  there 
are  some  curious  and  valuable  criticisms  in  it, 
and  many  of  the  remarks  in  answer  to  Boyle 
are  well  founded."  The  work  on  revelation 
is,  however,  still  studied  and  esteemed;  and 
even  if  it  were  not,  Delany  deserves  to  be 
remembered  for  Swift's  saying  that  "  he  was 
one  of  the  very  few  within  my  knowledge  on 
whom  an  access  of  fortune  hath  made  no 
change."  His  wife,  whom  he  regarded  with 
adoration,  survived  him  twenty  years.] 


THE   DUTIES   OF   A   WIFE.i 

First,  she  is  to  love  her  husband,  and  that 
upon  the  same  pi'inciples,  and  for  the  very 
same  reason,  that  he  is  to  love  her.  First,  be- 
cause they  are  one  flesh;  for  this  cause  shall 
a  man  leave  father  and  mother  and  cleave 
unto  his  wife,  and  they  two  shall  be  one  flesh. 
And  in  truth,  they  are  joined  together  upon 
terms  of  as  entire  and  thorough  a  communion 
as  if  they  were  one  soul  and  one  body.  And, 
secondly,  because  their  interests  are  in  all 
respects  perfectly  the  same,  which  is  the  truest 
foundation  of  friendship.  The  husband's  hap- 
piness naturally  tends  to  make  the  wife  happy 
at  the  same  time,  and  his  misery  to  make  her 
miserable  ;  his  riches  make  her  rich ;  and  his 
poverty  makes  her  poor.  It  is  always  their 
interest  to  wish  and  avoid,  to  desire  and  to 
detest  the  same  things;  and  surely  to  have  the 


»  This  and  the  following  extract  are  from  Family  Lec- 
tures, containiiiR  his  latest  Bermons,  republished  in  1791. 


very  same  interest,  the  same  desires  and 
aversions,  to  be  happy  in  each  other's  happiness, 
and  miserable  in  each  other's  misery,  are  the 
strongest  engagements,  and  the  surest  founda- 
tions of  entire  friendship  and  j)e)fectaflectioi), 
that  can  possibly  be  imagined. 

Secondly,  she  is  to  be  faithful  to  him;  and 
as  the  reasons  of  fidelity  are  the  same  both  in 
the  husband  and  in  the  wife,  the  crime  of  in- 
fidelity is  more  shameful  and  scandalous  in 
the  woman ;  because  it  is  committed  against 
the  rules  of  a  more  reserved  and  virtuous 
education,  and  against  the  natural  decency  and 
modesty  of  the  sex,  and,  at  the  same  time,  is 
of  far  worse  consequence  to  the  honour  of 
families,  because  it  brings  a  lasting  stain  of 
infamy  along  with  it;  and  what  is  worse 
than  all  this,  it  often  robs  the  right  heir  of 
his  inheritance,  and  substitutes  a  spurious 
offspring  into  his  place — an  injury  that  is  the 
more  to  be  dreaded  and  avoided,  because 
when  once  it  is  committed  it  is  impossible  to 
be  repaired. 

Thus  much,  however,  may  be  said  in  honour 
of  that  sex,  that  this  crime  is  less  frequent 
among  them,  and  rarely  committed  till  the 
husband's  infidelity  or  iU  conduct  hath  first 
provoked  to  it.  Aiid  this  is  the  true  reason 
why  the  infidelity  of  the  wife  reflects  so  much 
scandal  and  dishonour  upon  the  husband,  be- 
cause (generally  speaking)  his  own  vices  and 
ill  conduct  have  brought  the  evil  upon  him. 
And,  therefore,  the  only  true  way  of  secuiing 
your  own  reputation  in  this  point,  as  well  as 
your  wife's  virtue  and  the  honour  of  your 
family,  is  to  behave  yourself  with  so  much 
fidelity  and  tenderness  towards  her  as  may 
entirely  engage  her  affections,  as  well  as  her 
conscience,  to  you  and  you  only. 

And,  indeed,  let  any  man  reflect  seriously 
upon  the  treatment  the  generality  of  wives 
meet  with  from  their  husbands,  and  then 
think  impartially  whether  they  have  not  too 
much  reason  to  be  provoked  at  their  rudeness 
and  neglect.  Before  marriage  they  are  adored 
and  preferred  before  all  the  world  ;  but  soon, 
very  soon  after,  they  are  slighted  and  dis- 
regarded, as  if  they  were  unworthy  of  common 
esteem ;  and  they  are  slighted  for  the  veiy 
same  reasons  for  which  they  should  be  respect- 
fully and  tenderly  treated.  They  observe  at 
the  same  time  that  their  husbands  can  still 
treat  other  women  with  respect  and  com- 
plaisance, and  that  other  men  still  contiinie 
to  use  them  with  respect  and  comjilaisance, 
and  none  but  the  husband  slights  and  despises 
them,  ;is  if  marriage,  which  is  the  strongest 


PATRICK   DELANY. 


137 


engagement  to  tenderness  and  affection,  were 
but  a  privilege  for  contempt  and  rudeness. 
This  is  in  truth  provoking ;  and  I  am  satisfied 
the  generality  of  those  women  who  have  been 
so  unhappy,  and  so  wicked,  ;us  to  violate  the 
marriage  vow,  have  been  provoked  to  it  by  the 
rudeness  and  neglect  of  their  husl)ands,  or 
urged  to  it  in  revenge  of  their  piior  false- 
hood. 

It  is  not,  indeed,  to  be  imagined  that  men 
should  treat  their  wives  with  the  same  reserve 
and  formal  complaisance  after  marriage ;  that 
the  freedom  and  ease  of  friendship  forbids ; 
but  why  friendship  and  freedom  should  be  a 
reason  for  ill  treatment,  I  must  own  I  cannot 
conceive.  I  am  sure  they  should  be  reasons 
of  a  very  different  conduct,  and  I  believe  there 
is  not  a  righter  rule  in  life,  or  of  more  imjjort- 
ance  for  the  j^reservation  of  friendship,  never 
to  let  familiarity  exclude  respect. 

But  after  all,  wives  that  are  so  unhappy  as 
to  be  too  much  provoked  by  the  ill  treatment 
of  their  husbands,  should  always  remember 
that  their  husljands'  guilt  doth  not  justify 
theirs,  and  much  less  will  neglect  or  rudeness 
in  the  hvisband  justify  infidelity  in  the  wife. 
There  are  ai-ts  of  decency  and  good  behaviour 
which  have  inexpressible  charms;  and  if  a 
woman  can  but  have  constancy  enough  to 
practise  these,  and  to  continue  in  well-doing, 
they  are  almost  irresistible,  and  it  is  scarcely 
possible  to  imagine  any  husband  so  brutal 
as  not  to  be  at  last  reclaimed  by  them.  And 
women  would  be  more  solicitous  to  reclaim 
their  husbands  in  this  manner,  by  a  course  of 
good  behaviour,  if  they  considered  that  in  so 
doing  they  consulted  their  own  real  interest, 
and  the  interest  of  their  children,  and  greatly 
recommended  themselves  and  their  concerns  to 
the  favour  and  protection  of  Almighty  God, 
and  at  the  same  time  saved  a  soul  alive. 
Whereas  the  contrary  behaviour  can  tend  to 
nothing  but  the  utter  ruin  of  their  children, 
and  their  own  mutual  destruction, both  of  body 
and  soul. 

And  here  I  cannot  but  reflect  with  concern 
upon  the  unhappy  methods  which  have  ob- 
tained in  the  world  in  relation  to  the  educa- 
tion of  women.  One  of  the  first  things  that 
takes  possession  of  their  minds  is  the  hopes 
of  a  husband  ;  but  how  to  become  a  faithful 
friend,  and  an  agreeable  amiable  companion 
in  the  married  state,  are  lessons  rai-ely  taught, 
and  more  rarely  learned.  Sujierficial  and  showy 
accomplishments  are  indeed  inculcated  with 
sufficient  care ;  but  how  to  acquire  solid  worth 


and  useful  knowledge  makes  for  the  most 
part  but  a  small  part  of  parental  solicitude. 
By  this  means  a  woman  becomes  everything 
to  a  husband  but  what  she  should  be — a  social 
friend  and  a  useful  ;issistant.  Forgetting  that 
the  interest  of  all  men  makes  that  one  essential 
part  of  the  character  of  a  good  wife,  laid  down 
by  Solomon,  that  she  openeth  her  mouth  with 
wisdom,  and  in  her  tongue  is  the  law  of  kind- 
ness. That  is,  iis  she  hath  acquired  habits  of 
prudence  and  discretion  from  study  and  obser- 
vation, so  she  hath  made  it  a  fixed  rule  to 
herself,  not  to  be  imperious  or  presuming 
upon  her  knowledge,  but  rather  to  make  it  a 
reason  of  constant  cheerfulness  aiid  good  hu- 
mour, together  with  a  ready,  a  I'ational,  an<i 
an  affectionate  assistance  in  every  exigency, 
and  on  every  occasion ;  in  her  tongue  is  the 
law  of  kindness.  And  surely  wisdom  so  sea- 
soned and  sweetened  is  amiable  and  delight- 
ful beyond  expression.  And  therefore  this 
character  is  crowned  by  Solomon  with  that 
noble  encomium,  "Many  daughters  have  done 
virtuously,  but  thou  excellest  them  all."  That 
is,  many  other  women  may  be  as  virtuous; 
but  virtue  thus  i-ecommended,  virtue  that  is 
adorned  with  all  the  graces  of  prudence  and 
good  humour,  is  virtue  in  its  highest  and  love- 
liest perfection ;  thou  excellest  them  all.  And 
again,  "Favour  is  deceitful,  and  beauty  is  vain ; 
but  a  woman  that  feareth  the  Lord,  she  shall 
be  praised."  That  is,  the  regard  that  ariseth 
from  colour  and  complexion  is  transient  and 
unsteady ;  beauty  is  deceitful ;  a  fair  face  may 
cover  a  deformed  mind,  and  is  at  best  a  short 
and  uncertain  recommendation;  but  piety  and 
virtue  are  sure  and  lasting  perfections,  which 
will  always  entitle  the  woman  that  is  blessed 
with  them  to  eternal  veneration  and  esteem. 

But  further,  a  good  wife  is  in  many  instances 
to  do  yet  more  than  this ;  she  is  not  only  to 
relieve  her  husband  under  his  household  cares 
by  the  goodness  of  her  humour  and  sprightli- 
ness  of  her  conversation,  but  she  is  likewise  to 
lighten  those  cares,  by  dividing  them  with 
him  and  bearing  her  pai-t  in  the  burden. 
And  therefore  the  least  that  is  to  be  expected 
from  a  wife  is,  that  whilst  the  husband  is 
busied  abroad,  or  in  affaii-s  that  call  off  his 
attention  from  the  care  of  his  family,  that 
care  be  supplied  by  her,  and  this  constitutes 
the  true  character  of  a  good  wife,  at  least  that 
part  of  it  which  is  of  principal  and  most  uni- 
versal use  in  life.     .    .    . 

The  aire  and  good  economy  of  a  family  is  a 
business  of  a  very  distinct  nature  from  that 
of  making  a  provision  for  the  support  of  it. 


138 


PATKICK   DELANY. 


The  care  of  providing  for  a  family  for  the 
most  part  resteth  upon  the  husband,  because 
that  is  a  business  of  more  labour  and  fatigue 
than  women  are  ordinarily  able  to  undergo ; 
but  then  the  administration  of  what  is  so  pro- 
vided is  the  woman's  province.  Thus  is  the 
labour  of  life  divided ;  and  if  either  fail  in 
their  proper  business,  the  affairs  of  the  family 
are  in  a  ruinous  way,  and  upon  this  is  founded 
that  known  observation,  That  a  man  must  ask 
his  wife  whether  he  shall  be  rich,  forasmuch 
as  few  men  are  able  to  take  sufficient  care 
both  abroad  and  at  home,  and  foreign  care 
will  be  of  small  use  if  the  domestic  be  ne- 
glected. And  therefore  it  is  that  Solomon,  in 
the  character  of  a  good  wife,  tells  us  that  the 
heart  of  her  husband  shall  safely  trust  in  her, 
so  that  he  shall  have  no  need  of  spoil.  That 
is,  she  will  manage  his  household  affaii-s  with 
so  much  prudence  and  fidelity,  that  her  hus- 
band shall  need  no  indirect  methods  of  fraud 
or  oppression  to  support  her  luxury  or  extrava- 
gance. Again  he  tells  us  that  she  looketh 
well  to  the  ways  of  her  own  household,  and 
eateth  not  the  bread  of  idleness.  Indeed  he 
adds  many  other  circumstances  of  great  in- 
dustry, such  as  her  rising  up  by  night  and 
plying  the  spindle  and  distaff,  and  providing 
clothes  for  her  husband  and  family;  but  these 
being  circumstances  of  industry  peculiar  to  a 
country  life,  and  better  adapted  to  the  simpler 
ages  of  the  world,  when  trades  were  not  suf- 
ficiently settled  and  distributed  into  their  dis- 
tinct classes,  I  think  them  not  necessaiy  to  be 
insisted  on  in  this  place. 


THE  DUTY  OF  PAYING  DEBTS. 

In  a  former  discourse  upon  these  words  I 
laid  down  the  duty  of  paying  debts,  together 
with  the  evils  which  attend  the  neglect  of  it, 
l)0th  as  they  regard  the  debtor  and  as  they 
regard  the  creditor : — The  evils  to  the  debtor 
of  being  imposed  upon  either  in  the  quantity 
or  value  of  what  they  take  up  upon  trust,  and 
the  great  evil  of  making  expense  easy,  and  in 
consequence  of  that,  ruin  insensible  and  in- 
evitable:— to  the  creditor  the  delay  of  pay- 
ment in  due  time  draws  endless  inconveniences 
and  evils  after  it ;  loss  of  time,  and  trade,  and 
cj-edit,  and  in  conse(|uence  of  these,  it  may  be, 
inevitable,  and,  it  may  be,  extensive  and  com- 
plicated ruin.  I  now  proceed  to  make  some 
application  of  what  has  been  said,  to  all  orders 


and  degrees  of  men  that  allow  themselves  in 
the  violation  or  neglect  of  this  duty.  And 
first,  let  me  ask  the  thoughtless  spendthrift 
once  again,  what  can  be  the  consequence  of 
his  running  in  debt  with  all  the  world  but 
utter  ruin,  both  to  himself  and  others?  If 
the  persons  you  deal  with  are  honest  and  in- 
digent, how  can  you  answer  it  to  your  hu- 
manity to  bring  misery  and  destruction  upon 
the  most  pitiable  and  the  most  deserving  part 
of  the  creation?  to  destroy  those  by  your  ex- 
travagance which  even  cruelty  and  tyranny 
would  be  tender  of?  What  is  most  provoking, 
and  indeed  insufferable  upon  this  head,  is, 
that  those  who  allow  themselves  in  this  con- 
duct often  pass  upon  the  world  under  the  char- 
acter of  good-natured  men,  and  you  shall  often 
hear  it  said  of  such  a  one,  that  he  is  nobody's 
enemy  but  his  own.  But  the  real  tiiith  is, 
that  every  vicious  man,  whatever  he  may  be 
in  his  intentions,  is  in  effect  an  enemy  to  the 
society  he  lives  in,  and  more  particularly  a 
vicious  good -nature  is  one  of  the  ci'uelest 
characters  in  life.  It  is  kind  only  where  it 
ought  not ;  it  is  kind  to  every  vice  and  every 
villany;  it  is  indulgent  to  everything  but 
honesty  and  innocence,  and  those  it  is  sure  to 
sacrifice  wherever  it  comes. 

A  good-natured  villain  will  surfeit  a  sot 
and  gorge  a  glutton,  nay,  will  glut  his  horses 
and  his  hounds  with  that  food  for  which  the 
vendors  are  one  day  to  starve  to  death  in  a 
dungeon ;  a  good-natured  monster  will  be  gay 
in  the  spoils  of  widows  and  orphans. 

Good-nature  separated  from  virtue  is  abso- 
lutely the  worst  quality  and  character  in  life  ; 
at  least,  if  this  be  good-nature,  to  feed  a  dog, 
and  to  murder  a  man.  And,  therefore,  if  you 
have  any  pretence  to  good-nature,  pay  your 
debts,  and  in  so  doing  clothe  those  poor  fami- 
lies that  are  now  in  rags  for  your  finery,  feed 
him  that  is  starving  foi'  the  bread  you  eat, 
and  redeem  him  from  misery  that  rots  in  gaol 
for  the  dainties  on  which  you  fared  deliciously 
every  day.  And  besides  the  good  you  will  do 
to  others  by  those  acts  of  honesty,  you  will  do 
infinite  good  to  yourselves  by  them.  Pay- 
ing of  debts  is,  next  to  the  grace  of  God,  the 
best  means  in  the  world  to  deliver  you  from 
a  thousand  temptations  to  sin  and  vanity. 
Pay  your  debts,  and  you  will  not  have  where- 
withal to  piuxhase  a  costly  toy  or  a  pernicious 
j)leasure.  Pay  your  debts,  and  you  will  not 
have  wherewithal  to  feed  a  number  of  useless 
horses  or  infectious  harlots.  In  one  word,  pay 
your  debts,  and  you  will  of  necessity  abstain 
from  many  fleshly  lusts  that  war  against  the 


PATRICK   DELANY. 


139 


spirit  and  bring  you  into  captivity  to  sin,  and 
cannot  fail  to  end  in  your  utter  destruction 
both  of  soul  and  l)ody. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  the  men  you  deal 
with  and  are  indebted  to  are  rich  and  wily, 
consider  they  supply  your  extravagance  with 
no  other  view  but  to  undo  you,  as  men  pour 
water  into  a  pump  to  draw  more  from  it. 
Consider  they  could  not  atlbrd  to  trust  you  if 
they  did  not  propose  to  make  excessive  gain 
by  you ;  and  if  you  think  at  all,  think  what  it 
is  to  lose  a  fortune  by  folly,  to  purchase  super- 
fluous and  pernicious  vanities  for  a  short 
season,  at  the  hazard  of  wanting  necessaries 
for  the  tedious  remainder  of  a  misspent  life. 
Time,  which  sweetens  all  other  artlictious,  will 
perpetually  sharpen  and  inflame  this ;  as  the 
gaiety  and  giddiness  of  youth  go  oft'  the  wants 
of  age  will  become  more  sharp  and  more  in- 
consolable to  the  last  day  of  our  lives,  and 
severe  reflection  will  double  every  calamity 
that  befalls  j'^ou.  And  therefore  the  son  of 
Sirach  well  advises,  "  Be  not  made  a  beggar  by 
banqueting  upon  borrowing,  for  thou  shalt  lie 
in  wait  for  thy  own  life."  And  again  the 
same  wise  man  most  excellently  observes, 
"That  he  that  buildeth  his  house  with  other 
men's  money  is  like  one  tluit  gathereth  him- 
self stones  for  the  tomb  of  his  burial;"  he 
erects  a  sure  monument  not  only  of  his  folly 
but  of  his  ruin;  and  the  consequence  is  the 
same  from  extravagance  of  every  kind,  but 
with  this  difference,  that  the  ruin  derived  from 
wine  and  women  is  the  most  dreadful  of  all 
others,  as  it  involves  you  at  once  in  the  double 
distress  of  disease  and  want.  Who  amongst 
you  can  at  once  bear  the  united  racks  of  hunger, 
and  infection,  and  an  evil  conscience?  And 
yet  this  is  what  you  must  feel,  although  it  be 
what  you  cannot  bear;  the  torments  of  hell 
anticipated ;  to  be  deprived  of  every  blessing 
and  to  be  immersed  in  misery. 

Thus  much  for  the  youthful  extravagant. 
In  the  next  place,  let  me  api)]y  myself  to  the 
man  of  quality  that  is  guilty  of  this  vice, 
although  these  are  too  often  the  same  persons. 
If  ye  will  not  consider  what  ye  owe  your 
creditors  and  how  to  pay  them,  I  beseech  you 
calmly  to  reflect  and  consider  what  ye  owe 
to  yourselves,  to  your  family,  to  your  country, 
to  your  king.  "Was  it  for  this  that  ye  were 
distinguished  above  others  of  the  same  rank, 
only  to  be  more  eminent  in  infamy]  Was 
nobility  bestowed  upon  your  ancestors  as  a 
reward  of  virtue,  and  do  ye  use  it  only  as  a 
privilege  for  \'ice?  Is  superior  worth  degene- 
rated into  superior  villany?     If  ye  had  any 


remains  of  modesty  ye  would  renounce  the 
titles  and  the  fortunes  of  your  ancestors  with 
the  virtues  that  attained  them.  Ye  would 
blush  to  take  place  of  a  beggar  that  had  virtue. 
Will  ye  yet  pretend  to  be  better  men  than 
others,  when  ye  have  renounced  your  hu- 
manity, when  ye  are  no  longer  men  but  mon- 
stei'sl  It  is  not  expected  of  you  that  you 
should  perform  acts  of  heroism  and  generosity, 
that  you  should  reward  virtue,  and  support 
merit  in  distress.  Alas !  these  expectations 
are  long  since  vanished,  and  seem  only  the 
boasts  of  fabulous  antiquity.  But  methinks 
it  might  still  be  expected  of  you  that  you 
should  do  common  justice,  that  you  should 
not  be  worse  than  the  rest  of  mankind,  be- 
cause you  think  yourselves  better — at  least, 
exjject  to  be  called  so  and  treated  as  such. 
Surely  it  might  still  be  expected  of  you  that 
you  should  pay  your  debts  and  keep  your 
promises;  and,  in  truth,  ye  would  not  be  void 
either  of  dignity  or  of  dependants  if  ye  did 
even  this.  Mankind  are  already  too  much 
prejudiced  in  your  favour,  and  would  not  fail 
to  pay  you  sufticient  regard  and  reverence, 
even  if  you  did  them  no  good,  provided  you 
did  them  no  mischief.  But  if  ye  expect  to  be 
esteemed,  not  only  without  generosity  but 
even  without  justice,  ye  are  indeed  unreason- 
able, and  will  be  sure  to  be  disappointed. 

In  the  next  place,  let  me  apply  myself  to  the 
wealthy  and  covetous ;  these  are  of  all  othei^s 
the  most  inexcusable  in  not  paying  their  debts; 
men  that  have  made  or  improved  their  own 
fortune  by  industry  are  utterly  unpardonable 
in  oppressing  the  industry  of  others;  the  least 
that  might  be  expected  from  increase  of  wealth 
is  to  do  justice  with  our  abundance.  This  was 
the  express  direction  of  the  prophet  Elisha, 
when  he  had  miraculously  mcreased  the 
widow's  oil ;  he  commanded  her  first  to  pay 
her  debts  out  of  her  abundance.  "Go,"  saith 
he,  "  sell  the  oil,  and  pay  thy  debt,  and  live 
thou  and  thy  children  of  the  rest."  And  the 
reason  of  this  is  evident :  the  money  we  owe  is 
not  ours;  it  is  the  property  of  other  men  in  our 
keeping,  and  we  have  no  more  right  to  it  than 
we  have  to  the  money  in  their  pockets;  and 
although  we  should  make  no  return  to  God  for 
his  blessings  upon  our  industry,  in  alms  and 
acts  of  goodness,  surely  the  least  we  cjiu  do  is 
to  do  justice  to  men.  What  a  dreadful  reflec- 
tion is  it  to  turn  the  blessings  of  Providence 
into  a  curse  to  oui'selves,  and  all  we  have  to 
deal  with  !  Men  of  this  character  ai'e  in  the 
condition  of  those  malignant  insects  who  fret 
and  make  sores  wherever  they  come,  and  then 


140 


PATKICK   DELANY. 


feed  upon  them;  they  thrive  upon  the  miseries 
of  mankind,  which  is  absolutely  the  most  de- 
testable character  upon  earth  !  and  is,  next  to 
that  of  a  fiend,  the  very  worst  and  vilest  that 
can  be  imagined.  "Woe  unto  him,"  saith  the 
prophet  Jeremiah,  "that  buildeth  his  house  by 
unrighteousness,  and  his  chambers  by  wrong  !" 
"  Woe  unto  them,"  saith  Isaiah, ' '  that  join  house 
to  house,  that  lay  field  to  field,  till  there  be 
no  place,  that  they  may  be  placed  alone  in  the 
midst  of  the  earth  ! "  living  in  that  character  of 
cruelty  which  is  best  suited  to  a  beast  of  prey 
that  scatters  ruin  and  desolation  all  around 
him.  One  would  think  the  apostle's  precepts 
were  reversed  to  these  men,  and  that  they 
thought  themselves  bound  in  conscience  to 
owe  every  man  everytJiing  in  the  world  but 
love  and  good- will.  And  after  all,  to  what  pur- 
pose is  all  this  oppression  and  iniquity  of 
avarice  ?  to  heap  up  ill-got  riches  for  a  curse 
upon  themselves  and  their  posterity,  and  leave 
a  memory  and  a  carcass  equally  odious  and 
ofi"ensive  behind  them.  "  They  are  exalted  for 
a  little  while,"  as  it  is  finely  expressed  in  the 
twenty-fourth  chapter  of  Job.  "They  are  ex- 
alted for  a  little  while,  but  are  gone  and 
brought  low ;  they  are  taken  out  of  the  way 
as  all  other,  and  cut  off  as  the  tops  of  the  ears 
of  corn."  They  are  permitted  by  the  divine 
providence  to  fill  up  at  once  the  measure  of 
their  wealth  and  their  iniquity,  and  as  soon 
as  ever  they  are  ripe  for  ruin,  they  are  cut 
otf  in  the  fulness  of  their  pride  and  fortune; 
and  the  wealth  they  have  hoarded  is  like 
the  full  ear  of  corn,  which,  instead  of  being 
gathered  into  the  barn,  is  trampled  under  foot 
and  scattered  over  the  face  of  the  earth,  and 
so  becomes  a  prey  to  rocks  and  swine  and 
vermin. 

In  the  last  place,  let  me  apply  myself  to 
traders  themselves,  and  desire  them  to  reflect 
how  they  pay  their  own  debts;  I  am  afraid 
some  of  them  very  badly.  I  have  heard  of  a 
most  wicked  practice  amongst  them  of  paying 
their  journeymen  and  underlings  in  goods ;  I 
call  this  wicked,  because,  if  those  goods  are 
rated  at  the  shop  jjrice,  the  journeyman  is 
plainly  defrauded,  since  he  hath  no  allowance 
for  the  time  and  trouble  he  must  take,  and 
the  hazard  he  must  run  in  vending  those 
goods.  And  whereas  he  had  a  right  to  ready 
money  for  his  labour,  his  necessities  now 
oblige  him  to  sell  those  goods  at  any  price  he 
can  get,  to  the  discredit  of  trade  in  general, 
and  the  real  injury  of  that  very  ])erson  who 
laid  him  under  a  necessity  of  so  doing,  who  must 
of  necessity  suffer  by  having  his  goods  sold  at 


an  under  rate.  So  that  this  practice  is  as  ill- 
judged  in  the  shopkeeper,  and  as  weak  witli 
regard  to  his  own  interest,  as  it  is  wicked  with 
regard  to  his  poor  underling ;  and  indeed  all 
bad  payment  to  those  they  have  to  deal  with, 
especially  the  poorer  sort,  is  manifestly  in- 
jurious to  men  in  business;  for  the  clamour  of 
bad  pay,  and  the  discredit  that  necessarily 
attends  it,  generally  sj)eaking,  begins  there, 
and  therefore  Solomon's  precepts  ought  always 
to  be  strictly  observed  by  them  of  all  man- 
kind— "Withhold  not  good  from  them  to  whom 
it  is  due,  when  it  is  in  the  power  of  thine 
hand  to  do  it.  Say  not  unto  thy  neighbour. 
Go  and  come  again,  and  to-morrow  I  will  give, 
when  thou  hast  it  by  thee."  Although  the 
men  you  deal  with  do  not  know  your  wants, 
nor  consider  your  labour  and  loss  of  time  in 
seeking  your  due,  and  are  consequently  re- 
gardless of  you  and  your  necessities,  yet  you 
well  know  the  wants  of  the  poor  people  you 
deal  with,  and  the  injury  you  do  them  in 
making  them  lose  their  time  in  attending 
upon  you  ;  and  therefore  you  are  utterly  in- 
excusable in  not  relieving  them  from  those 
hardships,  when  you  can  do  so  barely  by 
doing  justice.  How  can  you  expect  a  blessing 
from  God  upon  your  own  endea^'ours  when 
you  are  gnilty  of  so  much  cruelty  and  injus- 
tice to  others  ?  when  you  are  guilty  of  so 
much  injustice  to  the  very  men  by  whose 
labour  ye  are  supported  ?  "  A  poor  man  that 
oppresseth  the  poor  (saith  Solomon)  is  like  a 
sweeping  rain,  which  leaveth  no  food."  Nature 
hath  formed  us  to  compassionate  the  calami- 
ties we  endure,  and  therefore  a  poor  man 
should  as  naturally  expect  aid  and  consola- 
tion from  his  brethren  in  the  same  condition, 
as  the  parched  and  impoverished  earth  expects 
relief  from  the  showers  of  heaven.  Conse- 
quently, when,  instead  of  being  aided,  he  is 
oppressed  by  his  brethren,  and  the  little  i-e- 
mains  of  his  substance  are  torn  from  him;  he 
is  then  in  the  condition  of  the  earth,  ravaged 
and  ruined  by  the  very  means  appointed  by 
providence  to  refresh  and  make  it  fruitful,  and 
all  its  seed,  all  the  means  and  hopes  of  a  future 
harvest,  swept  away  with  its  best  mould.  A 
poor  man  that  oppresseth  the  poor  is  the 
cruelest  monster  in  nature ;  and  it  is  the  just 
judgment  of  Almighty  God,' that  with  what 
measure  you  mete  it  should  be  measured  unto 
you  again.  "  He  that  doth  wrong,"  saith  the 
apostle,  "shall  receive  for  the  wrong  which  he 
hath  done;"  as  he  hath  done  it  shall  be  done 
unto  him;  his  reward  shall  return  u])on  his 
own  head. 


FRANCES   SHERIDAN. 


141 


FRANCES    SHERIDAN. 


Born  1724  — Died  1766. 


[Fiances  Sheridan, originally  Frances  ( 'iiam- 
berlayne,  was  born  in  the  year  1724.  Her 
father  was  Dr.  Philip  Chamberlayne,  a  cele- 
brated and  eccentric  wit  and  dignitary  of  the 
Irish  Church.  Among  his  many  rules  for  the 
good  conduct  of  life  was  one  which  forbade 
his  daughters  to  learn  to  write,  as  such  a  know- 
ledge could  only  lead,  he  declared,  to  "  the 
multiplication  of  love-letters."  However,  the 
result  was  as  might  be  exi)ected,  for  his 
daugliter  Frances  not  only  learned  that  ac- 
complishment, but  also  became  a  good  Latin 
and  Greek  scholar. 

Soon  after  passing  out  of  her  teens  she  pro- 
duced her  first  work,  a  novel  entitled  Eugenia 
and  Adelaide,  said  to  be  afterwards  adapted 
to  the  stage  by  her  daughter,  and  acted  with 
success.  She  next  tried  her  hand  at  sermon- 
writing,  and  published  a  couple  out  of  the 
many  that  she  produced  in  MS.  This,  how- 
ever, was  too  slow-going  work  for  her  sharp 
intellect  and  vivid  imagination,  and  when 
Thomas  Sheridan,  manager  of  the  Theatre 
Royal,  was  in  one  of  his  troubles,  she  boldly 
ado])ted  his  cause  and  wrote  a  pamphlet  in  his 
defence.  The  work  was  not  only  clever  but 
well-timed,  and  necessarily  attracted  the  atten- 
tion of  Mr.  Sheridan,  who  tried  to  discover 
the  author.  This  after  a  time  he  accomplished 
only  by  accident,  and  a  friendship  springing 
u})  between  them,  a  marriage  ensued. 

After  her  marriage  Mrs.  Sheridan  devoted 
herself  chiefly  to  her  2)en ;  but,  on  account  of 
ill  health,  the  results  of  her  labours  were  fewer 
than  the  world  wovdd  wish.  After  lingering 
for  years  in  a  weak  state,  she  died  at  Blois  in 
the  south  of  France,  in  the  year  1766-7. 

Mrs.  Sheridan's  principal  works  are  Memoirs 
of  Miss  Sidney  Biddulph,  extracted  from  her 
own  Journal,  which  "may  be  ranked  with  the 
first  productions  of  that  class  in  ours,  or  in  any 
other  language ;"  Nourjahad,  a  romance  full  of 
imaginative  and  picturesque  writing;  The  Dis- 
covery, a  comedy  considered  by  Garrick,  who 
played  in  it,  to  be  o)ie  of  the  best  plays  lie  had 
ever  read  ;  The  Dupe,  another  clever  comedy; 
and  The  Trip  to  Bath,  a  play  never  acted  nor 
published,  but  supposed  to  have  been  utilized 
by  her  son  in  his  comedy  The  Rivals.  In 
addition  she  wrote  a  considerable  amount  of 
verse,  some  of  which  is  yet  to  be  found  in 


Jjyce's  Specimens  of  British  Poetesses.  A  me- 
moir of  her  life  and  writings  has  been  written 
by  her  grand-daughter  Mi-s.  Lefanu.  There 
can  be  little  doubt  that  her  son  Richard  Brins- 
ley  Sheridan  inherited  from  her  a  lai-ge  por- 
tion of  his  wonderful  genius.] 


ODE  TO  PATIENCE. 

Unaw'd  by  threats,  unmov'd  by  force, 
My  .steady  soul  pursues  her  course, 

Collected,  calm,  resign'd; 
Say,  you  who  search  with  curious  eyes 
The  source  whence  human  actions  rise, 

Say  whence  this  turn  of  mind? — 

'Tis  Patience — lenient  goddess,  hail ! 
Oh  !  let  thy  votary's  vows  prevail, 

Thy  threatened  flight  to  stay; 
Long  hast  thou  been  a  welcome  guest, 
Long  reign'd  an  inmate  in  this  breast, 

And  rul'd  with  gentle  sway. 

Through  all  the  various  turns  of  fate, 
Ordained  me  in  each  several  state 

My  wayward  lot  has  known, 
AVhat  taught  me  silently  to  bear, 
To  curb  the  sigh,  to  check  the  tear, 

When  sorrow  weigh'd  me  down  ? — 

'Twas  Patience — Temperate  goddess,  stay ! 
For  still  thy  dictates  I  obey, 

Nor  yield  to  passion's  power; 
Tho',  by  injurious  foes  borne  down, 
My  fivme,  my  toil,  my  hopes  o'erthrown 

In  one  ill-fated  hour; 

When,  robb'd  of  what  I  held  most  dear, 
My  hands  adorned  the  mournful  bier 

Of  her  I  loved  so  well; 
What,  when  mute  sorrow  chained  my  tongue 
As  o'er  the  sable  hearse  I  hung, 

Forbade  the  tide  to  swell?— 

'Twas  Patience — goddess  ever  calm! 
Oh !  pour  into  my  breast  thy  balm, 

That  antidote  to  pain; 
Which,  flowing  from  the  nectar'd  um. 
By  chemistry  divine  can  turn 

Our  losses  into  gain. 

AVhen,  sick  and  languishing  in  bed, 
Sleep  from  my  restless  couch  had  tied 


142 


FEANCES   SHERIDAN. 


(Sleep  which  even  pain  beguiles), 
What  taught  me  calmly  to  sustain 
A  feverish  being  rack'd  with  pain, 

And  dress'd  my  looks  in  smiles? — 

'Twas  Patience — Heaven-descended  maid  ! 
Implor'd,  flew  swiftly  to  my  aid, 

And  lent  her  fostering  breast. 
Watched  my  sad  hours  with  parent  care, 
Repell'd  the  approaches  of  despair. 

And  sooth'd  my  soul  to  rest. 

Say,  when  dissever'd  from  his  side, 
My  friend,  protector,  and  my  guide, 

When  my  prophetic  soul, 
Anticipating  all  the  storm, 
Saw  danger  in  its  direst  form, 

What  could  my  fears  control  ? — - 

'Twas  Patience — gentle  goddess,  hear ! 
Be  ever  to  thy  suppliant  near. 

Nor  let  one  murmur  rise; 
Since  still  some  mighty  joys  are  given, 
Dear  to  her  soul,  the  gifts  of  Heaven, 

The  sweet  domestic  ties. 


A  WONDERFUL   LOVER. 

(FROM    "THE  DISCOVERY.") 

Scene,  Lord  Medwat's  Study.  Enter  Sir 
Anthony  Bran^ille  and  Lord  Med- 
WAY,  meeting. 

Lord  3fed.  Sir  Anthony,  I  am  glad  to  see 
you  ;  I  was  really  in  great  pain  for  you  yester- 
day, when  I  was  obliged  to  leave  you  in  the 
magic  circle  of  Mrs.  Knightly's  charms:  I 
wish  you  joy  of  your  escape. 

Sir  A.  Bran.  My  lord,  I  humbly  thank  you; 
'tis  a  felicity  to  me,  I  acknowledge ;  for,  my 
lord,  there  never  was  such  a  Syren,  such  a 
Circe ! —  Sylla  and  Charybdis  (of  whom  we 
read  in  fable)  were  harmless  innocents  to  her! 
— but  Heaven  be  praised,  I  am  my  own  man 
again. — And  now,  my  lord,  I  am  come,  agree- 
ably to  tlie  intimation  I  gave  you  before,  to 
make  a  most  respectful  offering  of  my  heart 
to  the  truly  deserving  and  fair  lady  Louisa. 

Lord  Med.  Sir  Anthony,  I  have  already  told 
you  I  .shall  be  proud  of  your  alliance,  and  my 
daughter,  I  make  no  doubt,  is  sensible  of  your 
worth  !— Therefore,  Sir  Anthony,  the  shorter 
wo  make  the  wooing — women  are  slippery 
things     you  understand  me. 

Sir  A.  Bran.  Your  lordship's  insinuation, 
though  derogatory  to  the  lionour  of  the  fair 


sex  (which  I  very  greatly  reverence),  h;is,  I  am 
apprehensive,  a  little  too  much  veracity  in  it. 
I  have  found  it  so  to  my  cost — for,  would  you 
believe  it,  my  lord,  this  cruel  woman  (Mrs. 
Knightly,  I  mean,  begging  her  pardon  for  the 
epithet)  is  the  eighth  lady  to  whom  I  have 
made  sincere,  humble,  and  passionate  love, 
within  the  space  of  these  last  thirteen  years. 

Lord  Med.  You  surprise  me.  Sir  Anthony; 
is  it  possible  that  a  gentleman  of  your  figure 
and  accomplishments  could  be  rejected  by  so 
many  ? 

Sir  A.  Bran.  I  do  not  positively  affirm, 
my  lord,  that  I  was  rejected  by  them  all ;  no, 
my  lord,  that  would  have  been  a  severity  not 
to  be  survived. 

Lord  Med.  How  was  it  then  ? 

Sir  A.  Bran.  Blemishes,  my  lord,  foibles, 
imperfections  in  the  fair  ones,  which  obliged 
me  (though  reluctantly)  to  withdraw  my  heart. 

Lord  Med.  Ho,  ho !  why  then  the  fault 
was  yours,  Sir  Anthony,  not  theirs. 

Sir  A.  Bran.  I  deny  that,  my  lord,  with 
due  submission  to  your  better  judgment,  it  was 
their  fault ;  for  the  truth  is,  I  never  could  get 
any  of  them  to  be  serious.  There  is  a.  levity, 
my  lord,  a  kind  of  (if  I  may  so  call  it)  insta- 
bility which  runs  through  the  gentler  sex 
(whom,  nevertheless,  I  admire)  which  I  assure 
you  has  thus  long  deterred  me  from  wedlock. 

Lord  Med.  Then,  Sir  Anthony,  I  find  you 
have  been  peculiarly  unfortunate  in  the  ladies 
whom  you  have  addressed. 

Sir  A.  Bran.  Supremely  so,  my  lord ;  for, 
notwithstanding  that  they  all  received  my 
devoirs  most  indulgently,  yet  I  do  not  know 
how  it  was,  in  the  long  run  they  either  abso- 
lutely refused  making  me  happy,  or  else  were 
so  extremely  unguarded  in  their  conduct,  even 
before  my  face,  that  I  thought  I  could  not, 
consistently  with  honour,  confer  the  title  of 
Lady  Branville  on  any  one  of  them. 

Lord  Med.  Your  lot  has  been  a  little  hard, 
I  must  confess.  I  hope,  however,  that  honour 
has  been  reserved  by  fate  for  my  daughter. 
She  is  your  ninth  mistress.  Sir  Anthony,  and 
that,  you  know,  is  a  propitious  number. 

Sir  A.  Bran.  My  lord,  I  take  the  liberty  of 
hoping  so  too ;  and  that  she  is  destined  to 
recompense  me  for  the  disappointments  and 
indignities  I  have  received  from  the  rest  of 
womankind. 

Lord  Med.  Wliy  then.  Sir  Anthony,  I  sup- 
pose I  may  now  present  you  to  her  in  the 
character  of  a  lover. 

Sir  A .  Bran.  My  lord,  1  pant  for  that  hap- 
])iness. 


FRANCES   SHERIDAN. 


143 


Lord  Med.  I'll  call  her,  Sir  Anthony — 

Sir  A.  Bran.  As  your  lordship  pleases — but, 
my  lord,  this  widow  Kniglitly — 

Lord  Med.  Was  there  ever  such  a  Jthleg- 
matic  blockhead  !  {Aside.)  Wliat  of  her,  Sir 
Anthony  ? 

Sir  A.  Bran.  I  own  I  loved  her  better  than 
any  of  her  predecessors  in  my  heai't. — Matters 
indeed  had  gone  fai'ther  between  us,  for,  my 
lord  (not  to  injure  a  lady's  i-e])utation),  I  must 
tell  you  a  secret — I  have  more  than  once 
pressed  her  hand  with  these  lips. 

Lord  Med.  Really! 

Sir  A.  Bran.  Fact,  upon  my  veracity;  I 
ho])e  your  lordship  don't  think  me  vain :  and 
as  she  had  indulged  me  sucli  lengths,  could  I 
be  censured  for  raising  my  wishes  to  the  pos- 
session of  this  beauty  ? 

Lord  Med.  By  no  means.  Sir  Anthony;  but 
then  her  ill  behaviour  to  you — 

Sir  A .  Bran.  Oh,  my  lord,  it  has  blotted, 
and,  aa  I  may  say,  totally  erased  her  image 
from  my  breast — 

Lord  Med.  Well,  sir,  I'll  bring  my  daughter 
to  you,  whose  image,  I  hope,  will  supply  hers 
in  your  breast.  \_Exit. 

Sir  A.  Bran.  I  hope  this  tender  fair  one 
will  not  be  too  easily  won — that  would  debase 
the  dignity  of  the  passion,  and  deprive  me  of 
many  delightful  houi-s  of  languishment. — 
There  was  a  time  when  a  lover  was  allowed 
the  pleasure  of  importuning  his  mistress,  but 
our  modern  beauties  will  scarce  permit  a  man 
that  satisfaction.  Pray  Heaven,  my  intended 
bride  may  not  be  one  of  those. — If  it  should 
prove  so,  I  tremble  for  the  consequences; — 
but  here  she  comes — the  condescending  nymph 
approaches. 

Enter  Louisa,  led  in  by  Lord  Medway. 

Lord  Med.  Louisa,  you  are  no  stranger  to 
Sir  Anthony  Branville's  merit. 

Sir  A.  Bran.  Oh,  my  lord  !       [Bowing  loio. 

Lord  Med.  That  he  is  a  gentleman  of  family 
and  fortune,  of  most  imblemished  honour,  and 
very  uncommon  endowments. 

Sir  A.  Bran.  Oh,  my  good  lord,  ordinary, 
slight  accomplishments. 

Lord  Med.  You  are  therefore  to  think  your- 
self happy  in  being  his  choice  preferably  to 
any  other  lady.  And  now,  Sir  Anthony,  I'll 
leave  you  to  pursue  yoiir  good  fortune. 

[Exit  Lord  Medway. 

Lou.  Sir,  won't  you  please  to  sit? 

Sir  A.  Bran.  Miss  Medway,  madam — hav- 
ing obtained  my  lord  your  father's  permission, 
I  humbly  presume  to  .approach  you  in  the 


delightful  hope,  that  after  having  convinced 
you  of  the  excess  of  my  love — 

Lou.  I  hope.  Sir  Anthony,  you  will  allow 
me  a  reasonable  time  for  this  convicti(jn  ! 

Sir  A.  Bran.  Madam,  I  should  hold  myself 
utterly  abandoned  if  I  were  capable  at  the 
first  onset  (notwitlistanding  what  passes  here) 
of  urging  a  lady  on  so  nice  a  point. 

Lou.  I  thank  you,  sir ;  but  I  could  expect 
no  less  from  a  gentleman  whom  all  the  world 
allows  to  be  the  very  pattern  of  decorum. 

Sir  A.  Bran.  'Tis  a  character  that  I  have 
always  been  ambitious  of  supporting,  whatever 
struggles  it  may  cost  me  from  my  natural  fer- 
vour; for  let  me  tell  you,  madam,  a  beautiful 
object  is  a  dangerous  enemy  to  deconim. 

Lou.  But  your  great  j^rudence.  Sir  Anthony, 
leaves  me  no  room  to  suspect — 

Sir  A.  Bran.  I  am  obliged  to  call  it  to  my 
aid,  I  do  assure  you,  madam;  for,  spite  of  the 
suggestions  of  passion,  I  by  no  means  approve 
of  those  rash  and  impetuous  lovers,  who,  with- 
out regard  to  the  delicacy  of  the  lady,  would 
(having  obtained  consent),  as  it  were,  i-ush  at 
once  into  her  arms.  You'll  pardon  me,  madam, 
for  so  grossly  expressing  my  idea. 

Lou.  Oh,  Sir  Anthony,  I  am  charmed  with 
your  notions,  so  refined !  so  generous !  and,  I 
must  add  (though  it  may  appear  vain),  so  cor- 
respondent with  my  own. 

Sir  A.  Bran.  Madam,  I  am  transported  to 
hear  you  say  so !  I  am  at  this  minute  in  an 
absolute  ecstasy !  Will  you  permit  me,  dear 
madam,  the  ravishing  satisfaction  of  throwing 
myself  at  your  feet  ? 

Lou.  By  no  means.  Sir  Anthony ;  I  could 
not  bear  to  see  a  gentleman  of  your  dignity  in 
so  humble  a  posture;  I  will  suppose  it  done,  if 
you  please. 

Sir  A.  Bran.  I  prostrate  myself  in  imagina- 
tion, I  assure  you,  madam. 

Lou.  Now,  Sir  Anthony,  as  you  see  my 
papa  is  impatient  for  the  honour  of  being 
related  to  you,  and  that  I  am  bound  to  an  im- 
plicit obedience,  I  am  afraid,  unless  your  pini- 
dence  interj)Oses,  that  we  shall  both  be  hurried 
into  wedlock  with  a  precipitancy  very  incon- 
sistent with  propriety. 

Sir  A.  Bran.  I  declare,  madam,  I  am  of 
your  ladyship's  opinion,  and  am  almost  appre- 
hensive of  the  same  thing — 

Lou.  How  is  this  to  be  avoided,  sir? 

Sir  A.  Bran.  Be  assured,  madam,  I  too  well 
know  what  is  due  to  vii-gin  modesty,  to  pro- 
ceed with  that  rapidity  which  my  lord  (with 
whom  I  have  not  the  honour  of  agi-eeing  in 
this  particular)  seemeth  to  recommend. 


144 


FRANCES   SHERIDAN. 


Lou.  You  are  very  kind,  Sir  Anthony. 

Sir  A.  Bran.  Oh,  madam,  I  should  pay 
but  an  ill  compliment  to  your  transcending 
merit  if  I  did  not  think  it  worth  sighing  for  a 
considerable  time  longer,  I  assure  you. 

Lou.  That's  very  noble  in  you,  Sir  Anthony 
— So  passionate  !  and  yet  so  nice — if  all  lovers 
were  but  like  you  ! 

Sir  A.  Bran.  The  world,  I  will  presume  to 
say,  would  be  the  better,  madam — but  then  I 
hope  your  rigours  will  not  extend  too  far,  my 
dear  lady — a  few  months  or  so — longer  than 
that  I  should  be  very  near  tempted  to  call 
cruel,  I  can  tell  you. 

Lou.  As  my  passionate  lover  seems  so  well 
disposed  to  wait,  I  may  chance  to  escape  him. 
{Aside.)  Your  extraordinary  merit.  Sir  An- 
thony, will  undoubtedly  shorten  your  time  of 
probation — Meanwhile,  as  I  hinted  to  you 
before,  that  my  papa  is  rather  in  haste  to  call 
you  son,  I  would  not  have  him  imagine  that 
I  gave  any  delay  to  this  union.  He  may  call 
my  duty  in  question,  which  he  expects  should 
keep  pace  with  his  own  wishes — you  appre- 
hend me,  sir  ? 

Sir  A.  Bran.  Perfectly,  my  dear  madam, 
and  if  I  may  presume  to  interpret  what  you 
have  so  charmingly  insinuated  to  my  aj^pre- 
hension,  you  would  have  me  just  hint  to  my 
lord  that  you  are  not  quite  avei'se  to  honour- 
ing me  with  your  fair  hand. 

Lou.  That  I  am  ready  to  do  so,  if  you 
please,  Sir  Anthony. 

Sir  A.  Bran.  Very  good,  but  at  the  same  time 
I  shall  give  him  to  understand  that  I  am  not  as 
yet  entitled  to  receive  that  very  great  happiness. 

Lou.  To  that  purpose,  sir,  for  I  would  not 
have  this  necessary  delay  appear  to  be  of  my 
choosing. 

Sir  A.  Bran.  You  little  know,  madam, 
the  violence  I  do  myself  to  repress  the  ardour 
of  my  flames ;  but  patience  is  a  prime  virtut- 
in  a  lover,  and  Scipio  himself  never  practised 
self-denial  with  more  success  than  I  have 
done. 

Lou.  I  rely  entirely  on  your  discretion.  Sir 
Anthony,  to  manage  this  affair  with  my  papa. 

Sir  A.  Bran.  Oh,  madam,  I  shall  convince 
my  lord  that  it  is  from  very  sublime  motives 
I  submit  to  postpone  my  felicity. 

Lou.  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  Sir  An- 
thony, for  this  generous  ])roof  of  your  passion- 
ate regard  to  me. 

Sir  A.  Bran.  You'll  find,  madam,  I  do  not 
love  at  the  ordinary  rate  luit  I  must  not  in- 
dulge myself  too  long  on  the  tender  subject. 
I  doubt  it  is  not  safe. 


Lou.  {Rising.)  Sir,  I  won't  detain  you. 

Sir  A.  Bran.  I  must  absolutely  tear  myself 
from  you,  madam,  for  gazing  on  so  many 
charms  I  may  grow  unmindful  of  the  danger. 

Lou.  Sir,  I  will  no  longer  trespass  on  your 
time. 

Sir  A.  Bran.  I  must  fly,  madam,  lest  I 
should  be  tempted  to  transgress  those  rigid 
bounds  I  have  prescribed  to  myself. 

Lou.  Sir,  you  have  my  consent  to  retire. 

Sir  A.  Bran.  I  am  so  overpowered  wdth 
transport,  madam,  that  I  hold  it  necessaiy  to 
withdraw. — 

Lou.  'Tis  the  best  way,  sir. 

Sir  A.  Bran.  Dear  madam,  vouchsafe  one 
gracious  smile  to  your  adorer. 

Lou.  Sir  Anthony,  your  humble  servant. 

[Smiles  and  curtsies. 

Sir  A.  Bran.  Madam,  your  most  devoted — 
oh  dawning  of  ecstatic  bliss !  [Exit. 

Lou.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  I  think  I  may  now  go, 
and  very  safely  assure  my  papa  that  I  am 
ready  to  take  my  adorer  whenever  he  pleases 
— this  is  fortunate  beyond  hopes.  [Exit. 


A  ROMANTIC   LOVE-MATCH. 

(FROM    "SIDNEY   BmOULPH.") 

We  have  had  a  wedding  to-day  in  our  neigh- 
bourhood. It  seems  this  pair  had  been  fond  of 
each  other  from  their  childhood,  but  the  girl's 
fortune  put  her  above  her  lover's  hopes. 

However,  as  he  has  for  a  good  while  been 
in  a  very  gieat  business,  and  has  the  reputa- 
tion of  being  better  skilled  than  any  one  in 
the  country  in  his  profession,  he  was  in  hopes 
that  his  character,  his  mistress's  affection  for 
him,  and  his  own  constancy  would  have  some 
little  weight  with  her  family.  Accordingly 
he  ventured  to  make  his  application  to  the 
young  woman's  brother,  at  whose  disposal  she 
was,  her  father  having  been  dead  for  some 
years;  but  he  was  rejected  with  scorn,  and 
forbid  the  house. 

The  girl's  father,  it  seems,  had  been  a  humor- 
ist, and  left  her  the  fortune  under  a  severe 
restriction,  for  if  ever  she  married  without 
her  brother's  consent  she  was  to  lose  it,  so 
that,  in  that  ]iarticular  instance  of  dis])Osing 
of  her  peraon,  she  was  never  to  be  her  own  mis- 
tress. In  the  disposal  of  her  fortune,  however, 
he  did  not  so  tie  her  up,  for  after  the  age  of 
one-and-twenty  she  had  the  power  of  bequeath- 
ing her  fortune  by  wiU  to  whom  she  pleased. 


FRANCES   SHERIDAN. 


145 


The  brother,  who  is  a  very  honest  man,  had 
no  motive  but  a  regard  to  his  sister's  interest 
in  refusing  poor  Mr.  Main ;  a  man  of  a  good 
fortune  had  proposed  for  her,  whom  the 
brother  importuned  her  to  accept  of ;  but  she 
w;is  firm  to  her  first  attachment. 

The  young  lover  fuund  means  to  convey  a 
letter  to  his  mistress,  in  which  he  told  her 
that  as  he  was  in  circumstances  to  support  her 
genteelly,  if  she  would  venture  to  accept  of 
his  hand  he  would  never  more  bestow  a 
thought  on  her  fortune.  This  proposal  the 
prudent  young  woman  declined  on  her  own 
part,  but  advised  him  to  make  it  to  her  brother, 
as  she  was  not  tlien  without  suspicions  that  he 
wished  to  retain  lier  fortune  in  the  family, 
and  that  it  was  only  to  save  appearances  he 
had  proi)Osed  a  match  to  her,  of  which  he  was 
sure  she  would  not  accept.  But  in  this  opinion 
she  injured  him.  She  thought,  however,  the 
experiment  might  be  of  use,  in  giving  the 
better  colour  to  her  marrying  aftei-wards  the 
man  whom  she  loved. 

But  it  was  an  ill-judged  attempt,  and  suc- 
ceeded accordingly;  for  if  the  brother  should 
have  given  his  consent  he  could  have  no  pre- 
tence for  withholding  her  portion;  or,  if  he 
did  so  by  mutual  agreement,  his  motive  for 
denying  his  consent  before  must  appear  too 
obviously  to  be  a  bad  one. 

The  young  people  not  considering  this  suf- 
ficiently, resolved  to  make  the  trial ;  accord- 
ingly Mr.  Main  wTote  to  the  brother  a  very 
submissive  letter,  telling  him  he  would  in  the 
most  solemn  manner  relinquish  all  claim  to  his 
sister's  fortune,  if  he  would  make  him  happy  by 
consenting  to  their  marriage ;  without  which, 
he  said,  the  young  lady's  regard  for  her  brother 
would  not  sxiffer  her  to  take  such  a  step. 

This  letter  had  no  other  effect  than  that  of 
making  the  brother  extremely  angry.  He  sent 
a  severe  message  to  the  young  man  to  acquaint 
him  that  he  looked  upon  his  proposal  as  a 
most  injurious  affront  to  his  character;  but 
that  he  was  ready  to  convince  him,  and  every- 
body else,  that  he  had  no  designs  upon  his 
sistei-'s  fortune,  as  he  would  not  refuse  his 
consent  to  her  marriage  with  any  other  man  in 
the  country  but  himself.  This  was  a  thunder- 
clap to  the  poor  lover;  he  comforted  himself, 
however,  with  the  hopes  that  his  mistress's 
heart  would  determine  her  in  his  favour,  not- 
withstanding the  severity  of  the  brother. 

There  had  been,  it  seems,  besides  this  gentle- 
man not  thinking  Main  a  suitable  match  for 
his  sister,  some  old  family  pique  between  him 
and  Mr.  Main's  father. 
Vol.  I. 


These  transactions  happened  sometime  be- 
fore I  came  to  the  country.  Just  about  that 
juncture  the  poor  girl  had  the  misfortune  to 
receive  a  hurt  in  her  brea.st  by  falling  against 
the  sharp  corner  of  a  desk  from  a  stool  on 
which  she  had  stood  in  order  to  reach  down  a 
book  that  was  in  a  little  case  over  it.  This 
accident  threw  her  into  a  fit  of  illness,  which 
put  a  stop  to  all  correspondence  between  her 
and  her  lover. 

In  this  Uluess  a  fever,  which  was  her 
apparent  complaint,  was  the  only  thing  to 
which  the  physician  paid  attention,  and  the 
hurt  in  her  breast  was  not  inquired  after;  so  that 
by  the  time  she  was  tolerably  recovered  from 
the  former,  the  latter  was  discovered  to  be  in 
a  very  dangerous  way,  and  required  the  im- 
mediate assistance  of  a  surgeon.  You  may  be 
sure  poor  Main  was  not  the  pei-son  pitched 
upon  to  attend  her,  another  was  called  in  of 
less  skill,  but  not  so  obnoxious  to  the  family. 
By  this  bungler  she  was  tortured  for  near 
three  months;  at  the  end  of  which  time, 
through  improper  treatment,  the  malady  was 
so  far  increased  that  the  operator  declared  the 
breast  must  be  taken  off,  as  the  only  possible 
means  of  saving  the  life. 

The  young  gentlewoman's  family  were  all 
in  the  greatest  affliction,  she  herself  seemed 
the  only  composed  person  amongst  them.  She 
appointed  the  day  when  she  was  to  undergo 
this  severe  trial  of  her  fortitude :  it  was  at 
the  distance  of  about  a  week.  The  surgeon 
objected  to  the  having  it  put  off  so  long,  but 
she  was  peremptory  and  at  last  prevailed. 

On  the  evening  preceding  the  appointed  day 
she  conjured  her  brother  in  the  most  eai-nest 
manner  to  permit  Mr.  Main  to  be  present  at 
the  operation.  The  brother  was  unwilling  to 
comply,  as  he  thought  it  might  very  much  dis- 
compose her,  but  .she  was  so  extremely  press- 
ing that  he  was  constrained  to  yield. 

The  attending  surgeon  was  consulted  on  the 
occasion,  who  having  declared  that  he  had  no 
objection  to  Mr.  Main's  being  present,  that 
young  man  was  sent  to.  He  had  been  quite 
inconsolable  at  the  accounts  he  received  of  the 
dangerous  state  in  which  his  mistress  was,  and 
went  with  an  aching  heart  to  her  brother's 
house  in  the  morning. 

He  was  introduced  into  her  chamber,  where 
he  found  the  whole  chirurgical  apparatus 
ready.  The  young  woman  hei-self  was  in  her 
closet,  but  came  out  in  a  few  minutes  with  a 
countenance  perfectly  serene.  She  seated  her- 
self in  an  elbow-chau",  and  desired  she  might 
be  indulged  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  speak 

10 


146 


FRANCES   SHERIDAN. 


a  few  words  to  her  brother  before  they  pro- 
ceeded to  their  work.  Her  brother  was  im- 
mediately called  to  her,  when,  taking  him  by 
the  hand,  she  requested  him  to  sit  down  by  her. 

"  You  have,"  said  she,  "  been  a  father  to  me 
since  I  lost  my  own;  I  acknowledge  your 
tenderness  and  your  care  of  me  with  gratitude. 
I  believe  your  refusal  of  me  to  Mr.  Main  was 
from  no  other  motive  but  your  desire  of  see- 
ing me  matched  to  a  richer  man.  I  therefore 
freely  forgive  you  that  only  act  in  which  you 
ever  exercised  the  authority  my  father  gave 
you  over  me.  My  life,  I  now  apprehend,  is  in  im- 
minent danger,  the  hazard  nearly  equal  whether 
I  do  or  do  not  undergo  the  operation;  but  as 
they  tell  me  there  is  a  chance  in  my  favour  on 
one  side,  I  am  determined  to  submit  to  it. 

"  I  put  it  off  to  this  day  on  account  of  its 
being  my  birthday.    I  am  now  one-and-twenty, 
and  as  the  consequence  of  what  I  have  to  go 
through  may  deprive  me  of  the  power  of  doing 
what  I  intended,  I  have  spent  this  morning 
in  making  my  will.     You,  brother,  have  an 
ample  fortune ;  I  have  no  poor  relations ;  I 
hope,  therefore,  I  shall  stand  justified  to  the 
world  for  having  made  Mr.  Main  my  heir."  j 
Saying  this  she  pulled  a  paper  from  under  her  j 
gown,  which  she  put  into  her  brother's  hand  j 
that  he  might  read  it.     It  was  her  will,  wrote 
by  herself,  and  regularly  signed  and  witnessed 
by  two  servants  of  the  family. 

"  Sir,"  said  she,  turning  to  the  other  sur- 
geon, "  I  am  ready  for  you  as  soon  as  my 
brother  is  withdrawn." 

You  may  imagine  this  had  various  effects 
on  the  different  pereons  concerned.  The 
brother,  however  displeased  he  might  have 
been  at  this  act  of  his  sister's,  had  too  much 
humanity  to  make  any  animadversions  on  it 
at  that  time.  He  returned  the  paper  to  his 
sister  without  speaking,  and  retired. 

Poor  Main,  who  had  stood  at  the  back  of 
her  chair  from  his  first  coming  in,  had  been 
endeavouring  to  suppress  his  tears  all  the 
time,  but  at  this  proof  of  his  mistress's  ten- 
derness and  generosity  it  was  no  longer  in  his 
power  to  do  so,  and  they  burst  from  him  with 
the  utmost  violence  of  passion. 

The  other  surgeon  desired  him  to  compose 
himself,  for  that  they  were  losing  time,  and 
the  lady  would  be  too  much  ruffled. 

The  heroic  young  woman,  with  a  smiling 
countenance,  begged  of  him  to  dry  his  eyes. 
"  Perhaps,"  said  she,  "  I  may  recover."  Then 
fixing  herself  firmly  in  the  chair,  she  pro- 
nounced with  much  composure,  "  I  am  ready." 
Two  maid-servants  stood,  one  on  each  side  of 


her,  and  the  surgeon  drew  near  to  do  his 
painful  work.  He  had  uncovered  her  bosom 
and  taken  off  the  dressing  when  Mr.  Main, 
casting  his  eyes  at  her  breast,  begged  he 
might  have  leave  to  examine  it  before  they 
proceeded.  The  other  surgeon,  with  some  in- 
dignation, said  his  doing  so  was  only  an  un- 
necessary delay,  and  had  already  laid  hold  of 
his  knife  when  Mr.  Main,  having  looked  at 
it,  said  he  was  of  opinion  it  might  be  saved 
without  endangering  the  lady's  life.  The 
other,  with  a  contemptuous  smile,  told  him 
he  was  sorry  he  thought  him  so  ignorant  of 
his  profession,  and  without  much  ceremony, 
putting  him  aside,  was  about  to  proceed  to 
the  operation,  when  Mr.  Main,  laying  hold  of 
him,  said  that  he  never  should  do  it  in  his 
presence,  adding  with  some  warmth  that  be 
would  engage  to  make  a  perfect  cure  of  it  in  a 
month  without  the  pain  or  hazard  of  amputation. 

The  young  lady,  who  had  been  an  eye-wit- 
ness of  what  passed,  for  she  would  not  suffer 
her  face  to  be  covered,  now  thought  it  proper 
to  interpose.  She  told  the  unfeeling  operator 
that  he  might  be  sure  she  would  embrace  any 
distant  hope  of  saving  heiself  from  the  pain, 
the  danger,  and  the  loss  she  must  sustain  if 
he  pursued  the  method  he  intended.  She  was 
not,  however,  so  irresolute,  she  said,  as  to 
desire  either  to  avoid  or  postpone  the  opera- 
tion if  it  should  be  found  necessary;  but  as 
there  was  hope  given  her  of  a  cure  without  it, 
she  thought  it  but  reasonable  to  make  the  ex- 
periment, and  should,  therefore,  refer  the 
decision  of  her  case  to  a  third  person  of  skill 
in  the  profession,  by  whose  opinion  she  would 
be  determined. 

The  two  women-servants,  who  are  always 
professed  enemies  to  chirurgical  operations, 
readily  joined  in  her  sentiments,  and  saying 
it  was  a  mortal  sin  to  cut  and  hack  any 
Christian,  they  made  haste  to  cover  up  their 
young  lady  again. 

The  disappointed  surgeon  hardly  forbore 
rude  language  to  the  women,  and  telling  Mr. 
Main  he  would  make  him  know  what  it  was 
to  traduce  the  skill  of  a  practitioner  of  his 
standing,  marched  off  in  a  violent  passion, 
saying  to  his  patient,  if  she  had  a  mind  to  kill 
herself,  it  was  nothing  to  him. 

The  modest  young  man,  delighted  to  find 
the  case  of  his  beloved  not  so  desperate  as  he 
had  supposed  it  to  be,  begged  she  would  i)er- 
mit  him  to  apply  some  proper  dressings  to  the 
aflHicted  part,  and  conjuring  her  to  call  in  the 
aid  of  the  ablest  surgeon  that  could  be  pro- 
cured, took  his  leave. 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


147 


The  brother  of  the  lady  being  apprised  of 
-what  had  passed,  lost  no  time  in  sending  an 
express  to  Bath,  and  by  a  very  handsome 
gratuity  induced  a  surgeon  of  groat  eminence 
to  set  out  immediately  for  his  house,  who 
airived  early  the  next  morning.  But  in  the 
meantime  poor  Main  had  like  to  have  paid 
dear  for  his  superior  skill  in  his  profession.  The 
other  surgeon  had  no  sooner  got  home  than 
he  sent  him  a  challenge  to  meet  him  that  even- 
ing, in  a  field  at  some  distance  from  the  town. 

They  met :  Main  had  the  good  fortune  after 
wounding  to  disarm  his  antagonist,  but  fii'st 
received  himself  a  dangerous  wound. 

This  accident  was  kei)t  from  the  knowledge 
of  his  mistress;  but  on  the  arrival  of  the  sur- 
geon from  Bath,  as  he  would  not  take  off  the 
dressings  but  in  the  presence  of  the  person  who 
put  them  on,  it  was  thought  proper  that  both 
Mr.  Main  and  the  other  man  should  be  sent  for. 

The  latter  was  not  by  any  means  in  a  con- 
dition to  attend,  but  the  former,  though  very 
ill  and  feverish,  desired  that  he  might  be 
carried  to  the  house.  The  Bath  sm-geon  hav- 
ing in  his  and  the  brother's  presence  examined 
the  case,  declaimed  it  as  his  opinion  that  the 
complaint  might  be  removed  without  amputa- 
tion, adding  that  it  was  owing  to  wrong  man- 
agement that  the  grievance  had  gone  so  far. 
He  consulted  with  Main  in  the  presence  of 
the  family  as  to  his  intended  method  of  treat- 


ing it  for  the  future;  he  agreed  with  him 
entirely  with  regard  to  the  propriety  of  it, 
and  having  assured  the  friends  of  the  girl  that 
he  thought  him  a  skilful  and  ingenious  young 
man,  took  his  leave,  being  obliged  to  return 
directly  home. 

The  testimony  of  this  gentleman,  whose 
skill  was  undoubted  and  whose  impartiality 
must  be  so  too,  having  never  seen  any  of  the 
parties  concerned  in  his  life  before,  wrought 
so  much  on  the  brother  of  the  lady  that  he 
did  not  hesitate  to  put  his  sister  under  the 
care  of  her  lovei'. 

Poor  Main,  though  scarce  able  to  leave  his 
bed  for  some  time,  was  nevertheless  carried  to 
his  patient  every  day,  at  the  hazard  of  his 
life.  His  skill,  his  tenderness,  and  his  assi- 
duity, were  all  exerted  in  a  particular  manner 
on  the  present  occasion,  and  in  less  than  five 
weeks  he  had  the  pleasure  to  see  his  mistress 
restored  to  perfect  health. 

The  consequence  of  this  incident  was  veiy 
happy  for  them  both.  The  brother,  exceedingly 
pleased  at  his  whole  behaviour,  told  him  he 
was  an  honest  generous  fellow,  and  since  he 
was  convinced  it  was  his  sister's  pei'sou  and 
not  her  fortune  he  was  attached  to,  he  would 
with  all  his  heart  bestow  both  on  him ;  and 
accordingly  Mr.  Arnold  and  I  had  this  day 
the  satisfaction  of  seeing  this  worthy  young 
pair  united  in  marriage. 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH. 


Born  1728  — Died  1774. 


[Oliver  Goldsmith — the  poet,  dramatist,  his- 
torian, essayist,  and  novelist,  who  has  left  us 
models  of  style  in  everything  he  attempted — 
the  author  who  above  all  others  creeps  into 
the  hearts  of  his  readers  as  a  friend — was 
born  on  the  10th  of  November,  1728,  at 
Pallas  or  Pallasmore,  in  the  county  of  Long- 
ford. His  father,  with  the  amiable  impro- 
vidence which  seems  to  have  belonged  to  the 
family,  married  very  young,  and,  as  Irving 
puts  it,  "starved  along  for  several  years  on 
a  small  country  curacy  and  the  assistance 
of  his  wife's  friends."  Two  years  after  Oli- 
ver's birth,  however,  a  change  for  the  better 
occurred.  The  uncle  of  Mrs.  Goldsmith  dying, 
her  husband  succeeded  to  the  rectory  of  Kil- 
kenny "West,  and  the  family  removed  to  Lissoy, 
in  the  county  of  Westmeath.     There  also  a 


farm  of  about  seventy  acres  was  rented,  whicli 
afterwards  brought  in  about  forty  pounds  a 
year. 

In  Lissoy  Goldsmith's  youth  was  passed, 
and  from  it  he  drew  most  of  his  pictures  of 
rural  and  domestic  life.  There  is  little 
doubt  that  it  also  furnished  the  original  of 
"Auburn"  in  The  Deserted  Village.  At  six 
years  of  age  he  became  pupil  to  the  village 
schoolmaster,  Thomas  Byrne,  an  old  veteran 
who  had  fought  in  the  Spanish  wars,  and 
one  likely  to  prove  a  capital  tutor  for  a  poet. 
From  him  Goldsmith  acquired  an  extensive 
knowledge  of  faiiy  lore,  fable,  romance,  and 
adventure,  and  by  him  was  encouraged  in 
scribbling  verses,  which  he  had  generally  the 
sense  to  commit  to  the  flames.  Some  of 
them,  however,  reached  Oliver's  mother,  who. 


148 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


good  easy  woman,  at  once  concluded  tliat  her 
son  was  a  genius  and  a  poet.  In  his  eighth 
year  an  attack  of  smallpox  neaily  cost  him 
his  life,  and  left  his  face  cruelly  pitted.  On 
his  recovery  he  was  sent  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Griffin 
of  Elphiu,  a  master  the  very  opposite  of  poor 
Byrne,  and  the  worst  that  could  be  chosen  for 
waj'ward,  warm-hearted,  romantic  Goldsmith. 
At  this  school  his  disfigured  face  and  rather 
ungainly  figure  soon  made  him  the  victim  of 
sneering  and  depreciation — a  fate  which  to  a 
certain  extent  followed  him  all  his  days.  From 
Eljihin  Goldsmith  was  in  a  short  time  moved 
to  another  school  at  Athlone,  and  thence 
after  two  years  to  one  at  Edgeworthstown, 
kept  by  the  Rev.  Patrick  Hughes.  In  none  of 
these  did  he  display  any  great  ability  except 
in  spurts,  and,  great  master  of  style  as  he  after- 
wards became,  it  was  at  this  early  period 
marked  by  confusion  and  awkwardness. 

On  the  11th  June,  1745,  Goldsmith,  then 
not  quite  seventeen  years  of  age,  entered 
Trinity  College,  Dublin,  as  a  sizar,  his  father's 
means  not  allowing  him  any  higher  ]X)sitiou. 
In  1747  his  father  died,  and  he  was  reduced 
to  the  very  lowest  state  of  poverty.  The  gifts 
which  he  had  from  his  kind-hearted  uncle  Con- 
tarine  were  utterly  insufficient  for  his  wants, 
and  an  exhibition  which  he  won  only  brought 
him  thirty  shillings.  To  supplement  these 
sums  he  pawned  his  books,  borrowed  small 
sums  from  his  fellow-students,  and  wrote  street 
ballads  at  five  shillings  apiece.  Poor  Gold- 
smith, in  addition  to  his  poverty,  had  to  suffer 
from  the  ca])rice,  violence,  and  vulgar  brutality 
of  his  tutor,  one  Wilder,  who  even  in  class 
made  him,  his  face  and  his  ways,  the  constant 
object  of  contempt  and  vituperation.  But  the 
spring  of  1749  terminated  his  college  life,  for 
on  the  27th  February  of  that  year  he  received 
the  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts,  and  was  re- 
leased from  Wilder's  tyranny  and  scoffs.  "As 
he  passed  out  for  the  last  time  throvigh  the 
wicket  in  that  massive  gate,"  says  Dr.  Waller, 
"  beside  which  he  so  often  loitered,  how  little 
did  he  think  that  the  time  would  come  when 
he  should  stand  there,  in  the  mimic  bronze, 
for  ever, — no  loiterer  now,  friendless,  name- 
less, neglected — but  honoured  and  admired: 
one  of  the  gi-eat  names  that  fill  all  lands,  and 
ennoble  their  own."* 

For  two  years  after  this  Goldsmith  passed 
a  lounging  life,  spending  part  of  his  time  at 
his  uncle's  and   part  with   his  elder  brother 


'  An  admira))]e  statue  of  Goldsmith,  by  J.  H.  Foley,  K.  A. , 
was  erected  before  the  gate  of  Trinity  College  iu  1864. 


Henry,  who  M-as  living  in  the  old  house  at 
Lissoy.  At  the  end  of  this  time  he  presented 
himself  before  the  bishop  to  be  admitted  into 
holy  ordei's,  but  was  instantly  rejected,  chiefly 
because  he  had  clothed  his  nether  limbs  in  a 
pair  of  scarlet  breeches.  After  this  rebuff  he 
started  for  America,  but  met  with  such  a 
series  of  mishaps  before  reaching  the  coast 
that  he  returned  home.  Next  he  tried  to  join 
the  bar,  but  was  inveigled  into  play  in  Dublin 
and  lost  the  whole  of  the  fifty  pounds  his 
uncle  had  provided  him  with.  Notwithstand- 
ing this  his  uncle  again  took  him  into  favoui", 
and  in  the  autumn  of  1 752  furnished  him  with 
sufficient  funds  to  enter  Edinburgh  University 
as  a  medical  student.  In  Edinburgh  he  re- 
mained till  the  spring  of  1754,  when  he  started 
for  the  Continent  and  arrived  at  Leyden  in 
May.  For  a  year  he  continued  his  studies  at 
Leyden  under  heavy  and  galling  difficulties, 
after  which  he  started  for  a  tour  through 
Europe  on  foot.  This  occupied  him  nearly 
two  years,  diu'iug  which  he  saw  much  of  cities 
and  men,  and  jjrobably  learned  more  than  in 
any  similar  period  of  his  life.  At  Padua, 
where  he  remained  some  months,  he  received 
his  medical  degree. 

In  February,  1756,  he  arrived  in  England, 
and  for  nearly  three  years  lived  in  gloom  and 
misery  which  we  may  not  penetrate.  Gold- 
smith himself  seems  always  to  have  shrunk 
from  any  full  revelations  of  them.  It  is 
said  he  was  Ijj^  turns  a  strolling  player,  an 
usher  in  a  country  school,  and  a  corrector 
of  the  press  in  the  printing  establishment  of 
Richardson,  author  of  Clarissa  Harlowe.  It 
is,  however,  more  certain  that  he  served  as  a 
chemist's  shopman,  and  that  Dr.  Milner  em- 
ployed him  once  or  twice  as  assistant  in  his 
school  at  Peckham.  Afterwards  he  attempted 
to  become  a  surgeon's  mate  in  the  navy,  but 
on  examination,  21st  December,  1758,  was 
"found  not  qualified." 

Before  this,  however,  that  is,  in  February, 
1757,  Griffiths,  proprietor  of  The  Monthly 
Review,  met  him  at  Dr.  Milner's  table,  and, 
being  struck  by  his  shrewdness  and  width  of 
view,  engagetl  him  to  write  criticisms.  For 
this  he  was  to  receive  a  small  salary  and  board 
in  the  house  of  the  publisher.  At  the  end  of 
seven  months  a  quarrel  between  author  and 
publisher  occurred.  Griffiths  charged  Gold- 
smitli  with  being  proud  and  indolent;  Gold- 
smith declai-ed  that  he  liad  been  lialf -starved, 
treated  uncivilly,  and  had  his  writings  muti- 
lated and  falsified.  However,  a  comj)lete 
breach  did  not  take  j)lace,  and  Goldsmith  con- 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 

After  the  Painting  by  SIR  JOSHUA    REYXOLDS 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


149 


tinued  to  sui)ply  the  publisher  with  odds  and 
ends  of  contributions,  until  in  1759  he  wjis 
regularly  engaged  by  Smollett  to  contribute  to 
his  new  ventuie,  The  British  Magazine.  Al- 
ready, in  April  of  this  year,  had  apjjeared  his 
Inquiry  into  the  Present  Utate  of  Polite  Learn- 
ing in  Europe,  an  essay  written  with  spirit, 
and  full  of  knowledge  and  shrewd  observa- 
tion, though  far  from  fulfilling  the  promise  of 
its  title.  This  year  also  saw  the  production  of 
The  Bee,  a  short-lived  periodical,  yet  fiUl  of 
lively  and  clever  wi-iting.  In  1760  he  was 
employed  by  Mr.  Newbery  to  contribute  to 
The  Public  Ledger,  and  on  the  12th  of  January 
of  that  year  appeared  in  its  pages  the  first  of 
a  series  of  essays  or  sketches  which  were  in 
themselves  enough  to  stamp  him  as  a  man  of 
genius  and  a  wise  philosopher.  These  were 
The  Chinese  Letters,  which  were  continued 
through  the  year  with  gi'eat  success.  They 
comprise  in  all  one  hundred  and  twenty-three 
letters,  and  were  afterwards  published  as  The 
Citizen,  of  the  World,  or  Letters  from  a  Chinese 
Philosopher  residing  in  London  to  his  Friends 
in  the  East.  Never  before  or  since  has  any 
satirist  exposed  more  clearly,  and  with  less 
cynicism  and  bitterness,  the  evils  of  society — 
evils  which  are  ever  present ;  and  seldom  has 
any  author  excelled  his  pictures  of  character 
displayed  in  Beau  Tibbs  and  Mrs.  Tibbs,  and 
the  inimitable  humorist  the  Man  in  Black.  Mr. 
Foreter  says  of  the  work  "that  the  occasions 
were  frequent  on  which  the  Chinese  Citizen 
so  lifted  his  voice,  that  only  in  a  later  genera- 
tion could  he  find  his  audience;  and  they  were 
not  few  in  which  he  has  failed  to  find  one 
yet."  Indeed,  in  this  year  Goldsmith  may  be 
looked  upon  as  having  established  his  fame, 
and  the  first  result  of  his  easier  position  which 
ensued  was  his  removal  from  the  squalid  and 
miserable  lodgings  in  Green  Arbour  Court  to 
respectable  rooms  in  Wine  Ofiice  Court,  Fleet 
Street. 

Soon  after  moving  into  his  new  lodgings 
Goldsmith  began  to  receive  his  friends,  among 
whom  were  Murphy,  Smart,  and  Bickerstafie. 
On  the  31st  of  INIay  he  gave  a  pai'ty,  to  which 
Dr.  Johnson  was  invited,  and  came  accom- 
panied by  Dr.  Percy.  The  acquaintance  thus 
begun  ripened  into  intimacy  and  friendship, 
and  exercised  an  enormous  influence  both 
for  good  and  evil  on  the  future  career  of 
Goldsmith.  During  17()1  Goldsmith  worked 
hard,  but  on  temporary  jobs  for  Newbery  and 
ephemeral  contributions  to  the  periodicals. 
During  this  time  he  wrote  a  Life  of  Beau 
Nash,  and  revised  and  remodelled  his  Chinese 


Letters  for  appearance  as  The  Citizen  of  the 
World.  In  17G2  he  was  ill  for  a  time,  and 
visited  some  of  the  watering-places.  In  17C3 
he  wrote  a  good  deal  of  a  fugitive  kind,  and 
l)roduced  his  Ilistori/  of  England,  in  a  Series  of 
Letters/rom  a  Nobleman  to  his  Son.  This  work, 
which  has  been  declared  to  be  "  the  most 
finished  and  elegant  sununary  of  English  his- 
tory in  the  same  compass  that  has  been  or  is 
likely  to  be  written,"  was,  like  most  of  the  au- 
thor's early  works,  issued  anonymously,  and  was 
attributed  by  different  people  to  Lord  Chester- 
field, to  LoitJ  Orrery,  and  to  Lord  Lyttleton. 
This  year  also  (1763)  he  made  the  acquaintance 
of  Boswell,  an  acquaintanceship  which  has 
done  more  to  lessen  the  proper  appreciation 
of  his  genius,  and  to  lower  his  character  as  a 
man,  than  all  that  has  been  effected  by  his 
bitterest  enemies  from  then  till  now.  About 
this  time,  too,  his  debts,  which  had  always 
troubled  him, let  him  earn  how  much  he  might, 
became  almost  unbearable.  Before  long  a 
crisis  occurred,  and  Johnson,  in  answer  to  "  a 
message  from  poor  Goldsmith,"  went  to  him 
and  found  that  ''his  landlady  had  arrested 
him  for  his  rent,  at  which  he  was  in  a  violent 
passion."  After  some  talk  Goldsmith  drew 
from  his  desk  a  novel,  the  evergreen  Vicar  of 
Wakefield,  which  had  been  written  in  odds 
and  ends  of  time,  and  presented  it  to  Johnson. 
Johnson  glanced  through  the  MS.  and  at  once 
carried  it  to  Francis  Newbery,  and  sold  it  to 
him  for  sixty  pounds.  With  the  defective 
literary  aj^preciation  of  too  many  people  who 
deal  in  literature,  Newbery  rather  doubted 
the  value  of  his  invaluable  purchase,  and  kept 
it  unpublished  for  nearly  two  yeai-s.  The 
sixty  pounds,  however,  served  to  get  Gold- 
smith out  of  his  difficulty,  and  enabled  him  to 
give  the  last  final  touches  to  The  Traveller,  or 
a  Prospect  of  Society,  which,  on  being  shown 
to  Johnson,  he  declared  to  be  "a  poem  to  which 
it  would  not  be  easy  to  find  anything  equal 
since  the  death  of  Pope."  In  December,  1764, 
the  poem  appeared,  and  its  author  at  once 
stood  on  the  top  rung  of  the  ladder  of  fame. 
This  was  the  first  work  to  which  Goldsmith 
attached  his  name.  Its  effect  upon  the  club 
to  which  he  and  Johnson  belonged  was,  it 
seems,  absolutely  ludicrous.  "They  were  lost 
in  astonishment  that  a 'newspaper  essayist'  and 
'bookseller's  drudge'  should  have  written  such 
a  ])oem;"  ))erha])s  even  more  astonished  to  find 
that  the  butt  on  whom  they  had  poured  their 
too  often  feeble  wit  was  a  man  of  sound  good 
sense — a  giant,  indeed,  who  stood  intellectually 
a  head  and  shoulders  taller  than  even  their 


150 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


dictator  the  mighty  Johnson.  At  this  crisis 
Johnson  acted  si)lendidly, and  warmly  defended 
his  friend  in  his  absence.  "  I  was  glad,"  ob- 
served Reynolds  at  one  meeting,  "to  hear 
Charles  Fox  say  it  was  one  of  the  finest  poems 
in  the  English  language."  "Why  was  you  glad  V 
asked  the  languid  Langton,  "you  surely  had  no 
doubt  of  this  before?"  "No,"  interposed 
Johnson  decisively ;  "the  merit  of  The  Traveller 
is  so  well  established  that  Mr.  Fox's  praise 
cannot  augment  it,nor  his  censure  diminish  it." 
Before  the  end  of  a  year  the  poem  had  passed 
through  several  editions ;  but  though,  in  the 
words  of  "Washington  Irving,  "it  produced  a 
golden  harvest  to  Mr.  Newbery,  all  the  re- 
muneration on  record  doled  out  by  his  niggard 
hand  to  the  author  was  twenty  guineas." 

Soon  after  the  success  of  The  Traveller 
Goldsmith  moved  into  chambers  in  the  Temple, 
as  being  more  genteel  than  even  the  Wine 
Office  Court  apartments.  However,  he  still 
had  to  work  hard  at  all  kinds  of  jobs  for  New- 
bery and  the  other  publishers,  and  it  was 
about  this  time  that  he  wrote  for  the  former 
the  famous  nui-sery  story  Goody  Two  Shoes. 
About  this  time  also  he  practised  a  little  as  a 
doctor,  but  the  restraints  and  duties  of  the 
profession  soon  became  irksome  to  him,  and 
he  abandoned  it  after  being  defeated  in  a  dis- 
pute with  a  chemist  as  to  the  proper  quantity 
of  medicine  to  be  administered  in  a  certain 
case.  The  patient,  a  lady  friend,  sided  with 
the  chemist,  "and  Goldsmith  flung  out  of  the 
house  in  a  passion."  "  I  am  determined  hence- 
forth," said  he  to  Topham  Beauclerc,  "  to  leave 
off  prescribing  for  friends."  "  Do  so,  my  dear 
doctor,"  was  the  reply;  "  whenever  you  under- 
take to  kill,  let  it  be  only  your  enemies." 

In  1765  an  edition  of  Goldsmith's  essays 
collected  from  ditferent  periodicals  appeared, 
and  for  this  reprint,  owing  to  his  increased 
reputation,  he  received  as  much  as  for  The 
Traveller  itself.  In  February,  1766,  The  Vicar 
of  Wakefield  was  given  to  the  world,  and 
before  the  end  of  August  three  editions  of  it 
had  been  sold  off.  In  December  of  same  year 
he  received  five  guineas  for  "  writing  a  short 
English  grammar."  In  this  year,  too,  he  com- 
menced to  work  at  his  comedy  The  Oood- 
natured  Man,  the  time  spent  over  it  being  the 
few  hours  which  he  could  spare  now  and  then 
from  liack  work,  then  as  now  necessary  to 
keep  the  pot  boiling.  In  the  early  part  of 
1767  the  comedy  was  completed,  and  negotia- 
tions entered  into  with  Garrick  as  to  its  pro- 
duction. Garrick,  who  had  an  old  spite 
against  the  author,  was  anything  but  enthu- 


siastic in  the  matter,  and  having  a  comedy  by 
Hugh  Kelly  oft'ered  him,  at  once  2)roceeded  to 
produce  it  so  as  to  delay  The  Good-natured 
Man.  To  further  this  move  he  himself  touched 
up  Kelly's  play  and  wrote  both  prologue  and 
epilogue  for  it.  He  also  arranged  with  Colman 
at  Covent  Garden,  into  whose  hands  Gold- 
smith's play  had  passed,  that  it  should  not  be 
brought  forward  until  after  Kelly's  had  been 
produced. 

At  this  other  crisis  in  Goldsmith's  aff"aira 
Johnson  again  acted  well.  "  He  attended  the 
rehearsals ;  he  furnished  the  prologue  accord- 
ing to  promise ;  he  pish'd  and  pshaw'd  at  any 
doubts  and  fears  on  the  part  of  the  author,  but 
gave  him  sound  counsel,  and  held  him  up  with 
a  steadfast  and  manly  hand."  Johnson's  pio- 
logue,  however,  was  too  solemn,  and  threw  a 
gloom  over  the  audience  which  was  not  wholly 
removed  till  the  fourth  act.  On  the  whole  the 
first  night's  performance  was  not  a  success, 
and  Goldsmith  left  the  theatre  cruelly  disap- 
pointed. The  play  ran  for  ten  nights  only; 
then  fitfully  appeared  at  intervals,  and  despite 
of  its  merits  never  became  a  stock  piece  for 
the  stage,  though  it  has  ever  been  a  favourite 
with  the  reader. 

Notwithstanding  its  comparative  failure, 
The  Good-natured  Man  brought  in  its  author 
£500—^400  from  the  theatre  and  £100  from 
the  publisher.  Immediately  he  changed  his 
chambers  for  more  ample  ones,  the  lease  of 
which  he  purchased  for  £400.  He  also  spent 
a  good  sum  upon  furniture,  curtains,  mirrors, 
and  carpets,  and  this  done  gave  dinneis  to  his 
friends  of  note  and  supper-parties  to  young 
folks.  This  kind  of  thing  soon  emptied  him 
of  all  the  proceeds  of  the  play,  and  forced  him 
again  to  drudge  hard.  To  assist  him  in  this 
he  removed  for  the  summer  to  a  little  cottage 
out  of  town  on  the  Edgeware  Road.  There 
he  worked  hard  at  his  Roman  History  until 
his  return  to  town  in  October.  In  May,  1769, 
the  history  appeared,  and  though  announced 
with  no  pretence  was  at  once  a  success. 
Johnson  was  in  raptures  with  the  work,  and 
placed  it  deservedly  far  above  anything  of  the 
same  kind  then  existing.  Of  course  it  was 
only  a  compilation,  and  laid  no  claim  to 
originality  of  information;  but  in  "its  ease, 
perspicuity,  good  sense,  and  delightful  sini- 
})licity  of  style"  it  still  remains  a  model  to  all 
historians.  Shortly  before  the  apj)earance  of 
the  liistory  he  had  already  arranged  for  the 
pi'oduction  of  another  great  work,  the  History 
of  the  Earth  and  Animated  Nature.  Johnson 
prophesied  that  he  would  make  this  work  "as 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


151 


entertaining  as  a  Persian  tale,"  a  prophecy 
that  tui-ned  out  quite  true.     The  work  was  to 
be  in  eiglit  vohinies  of  400  pages,  and  for  each 
vohnue  Goldsmith  w;is  to  receive  one  Imiidred 
guiuea-s.     Long   before   the    work    wa-s  com- 
jjleted  tlie  author  had  drawn  the  wliole  of  the 
payment.     On  the  2(ith  May,  1770,  appeared 
his  Deserted  Village,  one  of  tlie  sweetest  and 
most  pathetical  poems  of  the  kind  in  the  Eng- 
lish language.     By  August  a  fifth  edition  had 
appeared,  and  the  poem  stormed  the  hearts  of 
the  pul  ilic,  though  not  of  all  the  critias,  more 
successfully  than  even  The  Traveller  had  done. 
Soon  after  the  ap]jearance   of    The  Deserted 
Village  one  of  liis  hack  jobs,  a  Life  of  Parnell, 
a])peared,  and  a  little  later  Goldsmith  made 
an  exi)edition  to  Paris,  which  no  doubt  again 
emptied  his  pockets  and  landed  him  deeper  in 
debt.     After  his  return  to  Loudon  he  wrote 
The  Haunch  of  Venison  in  return  for  a  present 
of  game  sent  him  by  Lord  Clare.     He  also 
entered   into  an   agreement  with  Davies  to 
write  a  short  life  of  Lord  Bolingbroke,  and  to 
prepare  an  abridgment  of  his  History  of  Rome. 
The  life  appeared  in  December  of  the  same 
year,  and  was  mai-ked  by  Goldsmith's  purity 
of  style  and   freedom   from  party  bias.     In 
August,   1771,  his  History  of  England  was 
published   anonymously,  and   was,   like    the 
History  of  Rome,  a  complete  success.     "  Never 
before,"  declared  a  critic,  "had  English  his- 
tory been   so  usefully,  so  elegantly,  and   so 
agreeably  epitomized."      During    1772  Gold- 
smith worked  hard  at  his  Animated  Nature, 
besides   contributing   several    things    to   the 
magazines.      In  this  year  also  he  began  to 
feel  a  decline  in  his  health,  yet  moi-e  than  ever 
he  launched  out  into  a  course  of  social  dissi- 
pation.    He  was  constantly  dining  and  sup- 
ping out,  and  as  constantly  letting  his  hard- 
earned  money  slip  through  his  fingers  in  at- 
tempts to  keep  u])  his  social  position.     "  He  is 
a  guest  with  Johnson  at  Mrs.  Thrale's,   .   .   . 
a  lion  at  Mi's.  Vesey's  and  Mrs.  Montagu's." 
Meanwhile  all  the  money  for  Animated  Nature 
has  been  received  and  spent,  and  ^250  which 
he  soon  after  receives  for  a  History  of  Greece 
only  stops  the  mouths  of  his  creditoi-s  for  a 
while.     To  worry  him  all  the  more  the  pro- 
duction  of  his    new   comedy,   finished    long 
before,  was  unaccountably  delayed,  and  it  was 
only  after   Johnson   interfered   that  a   final 
arrangement   was    come    to.     At    length,    in 
March,  1773,  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  api)eared, 
and  was  successful   even  beyond    the  expec- 
tations of   Johnson   and    his   truest   friends. 
But,  notwithstanding  its  success,  the  clouds 


gather  thicker  and  thicker  round  Goldsniitlu 
He  had  not  the  courage  to  withdraw  from  the 
expensive  friendships  of  the  Literary  Club, 
and  by  clinging  to  them  he  only  plunged 
himself  dee])er  and  deeper  into  the  mora.ss  of 
ditficulties.  While  appearing  before  his  friends 
like  a  gentleman  of  fashion  he  had  tt)  drudge 
hard  in  his  lodgings,  and  worst  of  all,  much  of 
the  work  he  did  had  already  been  paid  for, 
and  could  produce  him  nothing  more.  While 
he  felt  his  heart  sink  and  his  courage  fail,  his 
outward  gaiety  increased,  and  even  Johnson 
had  no  suspicion  of  the  agonies  he  endured. 
At  last  he  determined  to  retire  from  the 
gaieties  of  society,  and  after  making  arrange- 
ments for  the  sale  of  his  interest  in  the  Temple 
Chambers  he  moved  to  "  country  quarters  at 
Hyde,  there  to  devote  himself  to  toil."  Before 
long,  however.  Goldsmith's  health  grew  so  bad 
that  he  was  forced  to  return  to  town.  For  a 
short  time  he  seemed  to  improve,  and  his 
poem  Retaliation  had  reached  a  point  in  the 
portrait  of  Reynold,  "  by  flattery  unspoiled," 
when  he  was  stricken  down,  and  his  pen  wrote 
no  more.  Rapidly  he  grew  worse,  but  his 
friends  were  still  hoping  for  his  recovery  when, 
on  Sunday  night  the  3d  of  April,  he  wakened 
from  a  deep  sleep  and  fell  into  strong  con- 
vulsions, which  continued  until  he  died  at 
five  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  the  4th  of  April, 
1774,  in  the  forty-sixth  year  of  his  age. 

Goldsmith  has  been  lucky  and  unlucky  in 
his  biographers  beyond  most  other  authors. 
For  many  years  writers  on  his  life  as  well  as 
his  readers  accepted  the  estimate  of  him  to 
be  found  in  Boswell's  pages,  and  even  when 
Prior's  biogi'aphy  of  him  appeared  it  did  little 
to  remove  the  general  impression  that  the 
author  of  The  Traveller  was  a  kind  of  inspired 
idiot.  In  later  years,  however,  he  has  been 
treated  with  greater  justice,  and  the  lives  of 
him  by  Washington  Irving  and  Mr.  Forster 
have  caused  him  to  be  spoken  of  in  a  different 
tone.  He  is  still  to  us  "  poor  Goldsmith;"  but 
while  we  use  the  expression  now  there  is  in  it 
nothing  of  contempt  or  depreciation,  but  only 
of  love  for  one  who  suffered  much  and  was 
lost  too  soon — of  regret  that  he  who  was  fii-st 
among  his  fellows  should  have  been  too  often 
their  butt,  while  through  weakness  of  char- 
acter, not  of  intellect,  he  had  not  power  to  seize 
and  hold  his  true  position.  In  this,  however, 
he  was  but  one  of  a  too  numerous  band,  and 
there  are  authors  alive  to-day  to  whom  might 
reasonably  be  applied  all  that  we  feel  when 
we  say  "poor  Goldsmith." 

Of  the  many  editions  of  Goldsmith's  Vicar 


152 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


of  Wakefield  oue  is  particularly  deserving  of 
notice,  published  in  1843,  with  thirty-two  illus- 
trations by  his  eminent  countryman  William 
Mulready,  R.A.  An  edition  of  his  Poetical 
Works  edited  by  the  Rev.  R.  H.  Newell,  B.D., 
in  which  the  locality  of  The  Deserted  Village 
is  traced,  and  the  poem  illustrated  by  seven 
engravings  from  drawings  taken  on  the  spot 
by  Mr.  Aitkin,  published  in  1811,  is  worthy 
of  admiration.  A  richly  illustrated  edition  of 
his  Earth  and  Animated  Nature,  with  exten- 
sive notes,  has  been  published  by  the  Messrs. 
Blackie  of  Glasgow.  The  editions  of  Gold- 
smith's Works  are  legion;  but  the  appearance 
of  Prior's  edition  in  1836  threw  those  published 
previously  into  the  shade ;  and  Cunningham's 
edition  of  1854,  which  formed  the  first  issue 
of  Murray's  British  Classics,  in  turn  eclipsed 
Prior's.  Of  the  numerous  lives  of  Goldsmith, 
that  by  Washington  Irving,  and  Life  and 
Adventures  by  John  Foi"ster,  stand  first.] 


THE   DESERTED   VILLAGE. 

Sweet  Auburn  !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 
AVliere  health  and  plenty  cheer'd  the  labouring 

swain; 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 
And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  delay'd: 
Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 
Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please; 
How  often  have  1  loiter'd  o'er  thy  green. 
Where  humble  happiness  endear'd  each  scene ! 
How  often  have  1  paused  on  every  charm, — 
The  shelter'd  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 
The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 
The  decent  church  that  topp'd  the  neighbouring 

hill; 
The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade, 
For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made ! 
How  often  have  1  bless'd  the  coming  day. 
When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 
And  all  the  village  train,  from  labour  free, 
Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreadin.r  tree! 
AVhile  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade. 
The  young  contending  as  the  old  survey'd; 
And  many  a  gambol  frolick'd  o'er  the  ground, 
And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went 

round ; 
And  still  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired, 
Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired, 
The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown. 
By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down; 
The  swain,  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 
While  secret  laughter  titter'd  round  the  place; 
The  bashful  virgin's  sidelong  looks  of  love, 


The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks  re- 
prove. 

These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village!  sports  like 
these, 

With  sweet  succession,  taught  e'en  toil  to  please; 

These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence, 
shed, 

These  were  thy  charms^but  all  these  charms  are 
fled. 

Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn, 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn; 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green: 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain; 
No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 
But  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way; 
Along  thy  glades  a  solitary  guest, 
The  hollow-sounding  bittern  auards  its  nest; 
Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies, 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries; 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all. 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mouldering  wall; 
And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand. 
Far,  far  away,  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 
Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay: 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade; 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made; 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride, 
When  once  destroy'd,  can  never  be  supplied. 

A  time  there  was,  ere  England's  griefs  began, 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintain'd  its  man; 
For  him  light  Labour  spread  her  wholesome  store, 
Just  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no  more: 
His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health; 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  alter'd;  trade's  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain: 
Along  the  lawn,  where  scatter'd  hamlets  rose, 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose: 
And  every  want  to  luxury  allied. 
And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom. 
Those  calm  desires  that  ask'd  but  little  room. 
Those  healthful  spots  that  graced  the  peaceful  scene. 
Lived  in  each  look,  and  brighten'd  all  the  green; 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore. 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

Sweet  Auburn,  parent  of  the  blissful  hour, 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  power. 
Here,  as  1  take  my  solitary  rounds. 
Amidst  thy  tangling  walks  and  ruin'd  grounds. 
And,  many  a  year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew, 
Remembrance  wakes,  witli  all  her  busy  train. 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


153 


In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care, 
In  all  my  griefs — and  God  has  given  my  share — 
I  still  had  hopes  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  clo«e, 
And  keep  the  flames  from  wasting  by  repose: 
I  still  had  hopes,  for  pride  attends  us  still, 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  ray  book-learned  skill; 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw. 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw; 
And,  as  a  hare  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past, 
Here  to  return — and  die  at  home  at  last. 

0  blest  retirement,  friend  to  life's  decline, 
Retreat  from  cares  that  never  must  be  mine, 
How  blest  is  he  who  crowns,  in  shades  like  these, 
A  youth  of  labour  with  an  age  of  ease; 
Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations  try, 
And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly ! 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep, 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep; 
Nor  surly  porter  stands  in  uuilty  state, 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate: 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end. 
Angels  around  befriending  virtue's  friend; 
.Sinks  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay, 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way; 
And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last. 
His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past. 

Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft,  at  evening's  close. 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose; 
There,  as  I  pass'd  with  careless  steps  and  slow. 
The  mingling  notes  came  soften'd  from  below: 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milk-maid  sung. 
The  sober  herd  that  low'd  to  meet  their  young, 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool. 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school, 
The  watch-dog's  voice  that  bay'd  the  whispering 

wind, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind; 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade, 
And  fill'd  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail. 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale; 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  footway  tread, 
But  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled: 
All  but  yon  widow'd,  solitary  thing, 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  sprin-; 
She,  wretched  matron,  forced  in  age,  for  bread. 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread. 
To  pick  her  wintry  faggot  from  the  thorn. 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn ; 
She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train, 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain. 

Near   yonder   copse,    where   once    the   garden 
smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden  flower  grows  wild; 


I  There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
j  The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
:  A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear. 

And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year; 
I  itemote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 

Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change,  his 
place; 
j  Unskilful  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power 
I  By  doctrines  fashion'd  to  the  varying  hour; 
!  Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learnt  to  prize, 

More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 

His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train. 

He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain; 

The  long-remember'd  beggar  was  his  guest. 

Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast; 

The  ruin'd  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 

Claim'd  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allow'd; 

The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay. 

Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talk'd  the  night  away; 

Wept  o'er  his  wounds  or  tales  of  sorrow  done, 

Shoulder'd  his  crutch,  and  showed  how  fields  were 
won. 

Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learn 'd  to 
glow. 

And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe; 

Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan. 

His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  lean'd  to  virtue's  side; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  everv  call. 
He  watch'd  and  wept,  he  pray'd  and  fell  for  all. 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries, 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  oflTspring  to  the  .skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay. 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid. 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain,  by  turns  dismay 'd, 
The  reverend  champion  .stood.     At  his  control 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unafi^'ected  grace, 
His  looks  adorn'd  the  venerable  place; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevail'd  with  double  sway, 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoflF,  remain'd  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man. 
With  steady  zeal  each  honest  rustic  ran; 
E'en  children  follow'd  with  endearing  wile, 
And  pluck 'd  his  gown  to  share  the  good  man's 

smile. 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  express'd, 
Their  welfare  plea.s'd  him,  and    their  cares  dis- 

tress'd. 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given. 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 
As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form. 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  stonn, 


154 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are 

spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  heatl. 

Beside  j'on  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossom'd  furze  unprofitably  gay, 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion  skill'd  to  rule, 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school; 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view, 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew. 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learn'd  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face; 
Full  well  they  laugh'd  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper  circling  round, 
Convey 'd  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frown'd: 
Yet  he  was  kind,  or  if  severe  in  aught, 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault. 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew, 
'Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cypher  too; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage. 
And  e'en  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge: 
In  arguing  too,  the  parson  own'd  his  skill. 
For  e'en  though  vanquish'd,  he  could  argue  still; 
While  words  of  learned   length  and   thund'ring 

soimd 
Amaz'd  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around; 
And  still  they  gaz'd,  and  still  the  wonder  grew, 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

But  past  is  all  his  fame.     The  very  spot 
AVhere  many  a  time  he  triumph'd  is  forgot. 
Near  yonder  thorn  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye, 
Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts 

inspir'd, 
Where  gray-beard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  retir'd; 
Where  village  statesmen  talk'd  with  looks  pro- 
found. 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlour  splendours  of  that  festive  place; 
The  white-washed  wall,  the  nicely-sanded  floor, 
The  varnish'd  clock  that  click'd  behind  the  door; 
The  chest  contriv'd  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day; 
The  pictures  plac'd  for  ornament  and  use, 
The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose; 
The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chill'd  the  day, 
With  aspen  boughs,  and  flowers,  and  fennel  gay; 
While  broken  tea-cups,  wisely  kept  for  show, 
Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glisten'd  in  a  row. 

Vain  transitory  splendours  !  could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tott'ring  mansion  from  its  fall. 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart; 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair, 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care; 
No  more  the  fanner's  news,  the  barber's  tale, 


No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  prevail; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear, 
Relax  his  pond'rous  strength,  and  lean  to  hearj 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  prest, 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

Yes !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train. 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart. 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art ; 
Spontaneous  joys,  where  nature  has  its  play. 
The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born  swayj 
Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 
Unenvy'd,  unmolested,  unconfined. 
But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade, 
With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  array'd, 
In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain. 
The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain: 
And,  e'en  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy, 
The  heart  distrusting  asks  if  this  be  joy. 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen  who  sur^-ey 
The  rich  man's  joy  increase,  the  poor's  decay, 
'Tis  yours  to  judge  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore. 
And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her  shore; 
Hoards  e'en  beyond  the  miser's  wish  abound. 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around. 
Yet  count  our  gains.     This  wealth  is  but  a  name 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 
Not  so  the  loss.     This  man  of  wealth  and  pride 
Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supply'd: 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended  bounds. 
Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds: 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth 
Has  robbed  the  neighbouring  fields  of  half  their 

growth; 
His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen, 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green; 
.Vround  the  world  each  needful  product  flies, 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies: 
While  thus  the  land,  adorn'd  for  pleasure  all, 
In  barren  splendour  feebly  waits  the  fall. 

As  some  fair  female  unadorn'd  and  plain, 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 
Slights  every  borrow'd  charm  that  dress  supplies, 
Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes: 
But  when  those  charms  are  past,  for  charms  are 

frail. 
When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail. 
She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless. 
In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress. 
Thus  fares  the  land  by  luxury  betray'd: 
In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  array'd, 
But  verging  to  decline,  its  spleudoui-s  rise, 
Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise; 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


lo5 


While,  scourged  by  famine  from  the  smiling  land, 
The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band; 
And  while  he  sinks  without  one  arm  to  save, 
The  country  blooms — a  garden  and  a  grave. 

Where  then,  ah!  where  shall  iioverty  reside, 
To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride? 
If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  stray'd 
He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade. 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide. 
And  e'en  the  bare- worn  common  is  deny'd. 

If  to  the  city  sped — What  waits  him  there? 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share; 
To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 
To  pamper  luxury  and  thin  mankinil; 
To  see  each  Joy  the  sons  of  pleasure  know 
Extorted  from  his  fellow-creature's  woe. 
Here,  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade, 
There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade; 
Here,  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps 

display. 
There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way. 
The  dome  where   Pleasure   holds    her  midnight 

reign. 
Here,  richly  deck'd,  admits  the  gorgeous  train: 
Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing  square, 
The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 
Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy ! 
Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy ! 
Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts?     Ah!  turn  thine 

eyes 
Where  the  poor  houseless  shivering  female  lies. 
She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blest, 
Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distrest; 
Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 
Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn; 
Now  lost  to  all.  her  friends,  her  virtue  fled, 
Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head. 
And  pinch'd  w^ith  cold,  and  shrinking  from  the 

shower, 
With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour, 
When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town. 
She  left  her  wheel  and  robes  of  country  brown. 

Do   thine,  sweet   Auburn,  thine,  the   loveliest 
train. 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain? 
E'en  now  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 
At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread ! 
Ah  no.     To  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene. 
Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  between. 
Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they  go, 
Where  wild  Altama  murmurs  to  their  woe. 
Far  dificrent  there  from  all  that  charm'd  before. 
The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore; 
Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward  ray. 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day; 
Those  matted  woods  where  birds  forget  to  sing. 
But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clustei-s  cling; 


Those   poisonous    fields,    with    rank    luxuriance 

crown'd, 
Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death  around; 
Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 
The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake; 
Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  prey, 
And  savage  men  more  murderous  still  than  they; 
While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 
Mingling  the  ravaged  landscape  with  the  skies. 
Far  ditterent  these  from  every  former  scene, 
The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy-vested  green, 
The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove. 
That  only  shclter'd  thefts  of  harmless  love. 

Good  Heaven!  what  sorrows  gloom'd  that  part- 
ing day, 
That  call'd  them  from  their  native  walks  away; 
When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past, 
Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly  look'd  their 

last. 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wished  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main; 
And,  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
Return'd  and  wept,  and  still  return'd  to  weep. 
The  good  old  sire  the  first  prepared  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others'  woe; 
But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 
He  only  wish'd  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears. 
The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years, 
Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms. 
And  left  a  lover's  for  her  father's  arms. 
With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 
And  bless'd  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose; 
And  kiss'd  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a  tear, 
And  clasp'd  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear; 
Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief, 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

0  Luxury  I  thou  curst  by  Heaven's  decree, 
How  ill  exchanged  are  things  like  these  for  thee ! 
How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy. 
Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy ! 
Kingdoms  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  grown. 
Boast  of  a  florid  vigour  not  their  own: 
At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they  grow, 
A  bloated  mass  of  rank  unwieldy  woe; 
Till  sapp'd  their  strength,  and  every  part  unsound, 
Down,  down  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin  round. 

E'en  now  the  devastation  is  begun, 
And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done; 
E'en  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  1  stand. 
I  sec  the  rural  virtues  leave  the  land. 
Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the  sail, 
That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  every  gale. 
Downward  they  move,  a  melancholy  band, 
Pa.ss  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the  strand. 
Contented  toil,  and  hospitable  care, 
And  kind  connubial  tenderness,  are  there; 


156 


OLIVEK  GOLDSMITH. 


And  piety  with  wishes  placed  above, 
And  steady  loyalty,  and  faithful  love. 
And  thou,  sweet  Poetry  !  thou  loveliest  maid, 
Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade: 
Unfit,  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame, 
To  catch  the  heart  or  strike  for  honest  fame; 
Dear  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried, 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitiiry  pride: 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss,  and  all  my  woe, 
That  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st  me  so; 
Thou  guide,  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel. 
Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue,  fare  thee  well ! 
Farewell,  and  oh  !  where'er  thy  voice  be  tried. 
On  Torno's  cliff's,  or  Pambamarca's  side, 
AVhether  where  equinoctial  fen'ours  glow, 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow. 
Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time. 
Redress  the  rigours  of  the  inclement  clime; 
Aid  slighted  truth  with  thy  persuasive  strain; 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain; 
Teach  him  that  states,  of  native  strength  possess'd 
Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blest; 
That  trade's  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift  decay. 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  labour'd  mole  away; 
While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy, 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky. 


SWITZERLAND   AND   FRANCE. 

(from  "the  traveller.") 

Turn  we  to  survey 
Where  rougher  climes  a  nobler  race  display; 
Where  the  bleak  Swiss  their  stormy  mansion  tread. 
And  force  a  churlish  soil  for  scanty  bread; 
No  product  here  the  barren  hills  aff'ord. 
But  man  and  steel,  the  soldier  and  his  sword; 
No  vernal  blooms  their  torpid  rocks  array. 
But  winter,  lingering,  chills  the  lap  of  May; 
No  zephyr  fondly  sues  the  mountain's  breast, 
But  meteors  glare,  and  stormy  glooms  invest. 

Yet  still,  e'en  here,  content  can  spread  a  charm, 
IJedress  the  clime,  and  all  its  rage  disarm. 
Though  poor  the  peasant's  hut,  his  feast  though 

small; 
He  sees  his  little  lot  tlie  lot  of  all; 
Sees  no  contiguous  palace  rear  its  head. 
To  shame  the  meanness  of  his  humble  shed; 
No  costly  lord  the  sumptuous  banquet  deal, 
To  make  him  loathe  iiis  vegetable  meal; 
But  calm,  and  bred  in  ignorance  and  toil. 
Each  wish  contracting,  fits  him  to  the  soil; 
Cheerful  at  morn,  he  wakes  from  short  repose. 
Breasts  the  keen  air,  and  carols  as  he  goes; 
With  patient  angle  trolls  the  finny  deep. 
Or  drives  his  venturous  ploughshare  to  the  steep; 
Or  seeks  the  den  where  snow-tracks  mark  tlie  wav. 


And  drags  the  struggling  savage  into  day. 
At  night  returning,  every  labour  sped 
He  sits  him  down,  the  monarch  of  a  shed; 
Smiles  by  his  ciieerful  fire,  and  round  surveys 
His  children's  looks  that  brighten  at  the  blaze; 
While  his  loved  partner,  boastful  of  her  hoard, 
Displays  her  cleanly  platter  on  the  board; 
And  haply,  too,  some  pilgrim  thither  led, 
With  many  a  tale  repays  the  nightly  bed. 

Thus  every  good  his  native  wilds  impart. 
Imprints  the  patriot  passion  on  his  heart; 
And  e'en  those  hills  that  round  his  mansion  rise, 
Enhance  the  bliss  his  scanty  fund  supplies. 
Dear  is  that  shed  to  which  his  soul  conforms. 
And  dear  that  hill  which  lifts  him  to  the  storms; 
And  as  a  child,  when  scaring  sounds  molest. 
Clings  close  and  closer  to  the  mother's  breast. 
So  the  loud  torrent,  and  the  whirlwind's  roar. 
But  bind  him  to  his  native  mountains  more. 

Such  are  the  charms  to  barren  states  assign'd; 
Their  wants  but  few,  their  wishes  all  confined. 
Yet  let  them  only  share  the  praises  due; 
If  few  their  wants,  their  pleasures  are  but  few: 
For  every  want  that  stimulates  the  breast. 
Becomes  a  source  of  pleasure  when  redress'd; 
Whence  from  such  lands  each  pleasing  science  flies, 
That  first  excites  desire,  and  then  supplies; 
Unknown  to  them  when  sensual  pleasures  cloy, 
To  fill  the  languid  pause  with  finer  joy; 
Unknown   those  powers   that   raise    the  soul   to 

flame, 
Catch  every  nerve,  and  vibrate  through  the  frame. 
Their  level  life  is  but  a  smouldering  fire, 
Unquench'd  by  want,  unfann'd  by  strong  desire; 
Unfit  for  raptures,  or  if  raptures  cheer 
On  some  high  festival  of  once  a  year. 
In  wild  excess  the  vulgar  breast  takes  fire, 
Till,  buried  in  debauch,  the  bliss  expire. 

But  not  their  joys  alone  thus  coarsely  flow; 
Their  morals,  like  their  pleasures,  are  but  low; 
For,  as  refinement  stops,  from  sire  to  son 
Unaiter'd,  unimprov'd,  the  manners  run; 
And  Love's  and  Friendship's  finely-pointed  dart 
Fall  blunted  from  each  indurated  heart. 
Some  sterner  virtues  o'er  the  mountain's  breast 
May  sit,  like  falcons,  cowering  on  the  nest; 
But  all  the  gentler  morals,  such  as  play 
Through  life's  more  cultured  walks,  and  charm 

the  way. 
These,  far  dispersed  on  timorous  pinions  flj'. 
To  sport  and  flutter  in  a  kinder  sky. 

To  kinder  skies,  where  gentler  manners  reign, 
I  turn;  and  France  displays  her  bright  domain. 
Gay,  sprightly  land  of  mirth  and  social  case. 
Pleased   with  thyself,  whom   all   the  world  can 
please! 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


157 


How  often  have  I  led  thy  sportive  choir, 
With  tuneless  pipe  beside  the  murmuring  I^oire! 
Where  shading  elms  along  the  margin  grew, 
And  freshcn'd  from  tlie  wave  the  zephyr  flew; 
And  haply,  thougii  my  harsh  touch  faltering  still, 
But   mock'd  all    tune,  and   marr'd    the  dancer's 

skill, 
Yet  would  the  village  praise  my  wondrous  power. 
And  dance,  forgetful  of  the  noon-tide  hour. 
Alike  all  ages:  dames  of  ancient  <lays 
Have   led    their   children    through    the   mirthful 

maze ; 
And  the  gay  grandsire,  skill'd  in  gestic  lore, 
Has  frisk'd  beneath  the  burden  of  threescore. 

So  blest  a  life  the.se  thoughtless  realms  display, 
Thus  idly  busy  rolls  their  world  away, 
Theirs  are  those  arts  that  mind  to  mind  endear. 
For  honour  forms  the  social  temper  here. 
Honour,  that  praise  which  real  merit  gains. 
Or  e'en  imaginary  worth  obtains. 
Here  passes  current;  paid  from  hand  to  hand. 
It  shifts,  in  splendid  traffic,  round  the  land. 
From  courts  to  camps,  to  cottages  it  strays, 
And  all  are  taught  an  avarice  of  praise; 
They  please,  are  pleased;  they  give  to  get  esteem, 
Till,  seeming  blest,  they  grow  to  what  they  seem. 

But  while  this  softer  art  their  bliss  supplies. 
It  gives  their  follies,  also,  room  to  ri.se; 
For  praise  too  dearly  loved,  or  warmly  sought, 
Enfeebles  all  internal  strength  of  thought; 
And  the  weak  soul,  within  itself  unblest, 
Leans  for  all  pleasure  on  another's  breast. 
Hence  ostentation  here,  with  tawdry  heart. 
Pants  for  the  vulgar  praise  which  fools  impart; 
Here  vanity  assumes  her  pert  grimace. 
And  trims  her  robes  of  frieze  with  copper  lace; 
Here  beggar  pride  defrauds  her  daily  cheer. 
To  boast  one  splendid  banquet  once  a  year: 
The  mind  still  turns  where  shifting  fashion  draws. 
Nor  weighs  the  solid  worth  of  self-applause. 


DESCRIPTION   OF    AN    AUTHOE'S 
BED-CHAMBER. 

Where  the  Red  Lion,  staring  o'er  the  way, 
Invites  eacii  passing  stranger  that  can  pay; 
Where  Calvert's  butt,  and  Parsons'  black  cham- 
pagne. 
Regale  the  drabs  and  bloods  of  Drury  Lane ; 
There  in  a  lonely  room,  from  bailiffs  snug, 
The  Muse  found  Scroggen  .stretch'd  beneath  a  rug. 
A  window,  patch'd  with  paper,  lent  a  ray. 
That  dimly  show'd  the  state  in  which  he  lay ; 
The  sanded  floor  that  grits  beneath  the  tread; 
The  liumid  wall  with  paltry  pictures  .spread; 
The  roval  Game  of  Goose  was  there  in  view, 


And  the  Twelve  Rules  the  royal  martyr  drew ; 
The  Seasons,  framed  with  li.sting,  found  a  place, 
And  brave  Prince  William  show'd  his  lamp-black 

face. 
The  morn  was  cold  ;  he  views  with  keen  desire 
The  rusty  grate  unconsciou.s  of  a  fire: 
With  beer  and  milk  arrears  the  frieze  was  .scored, 
And  five  cracked  tea-cups  dress'd  the  chimney- 
board  ; 
A  night-cap  deck'd  his  brows  instead  of  bay, 
A  cap  by  night a  stocking  all  the  day! 


HOPE. 

The  wretch  condemned  with  life  to  part. 

Still !  .still !  on  hope  relies; 
And  every  pang,  that  rends  the  heart, 

Bids  expectation  rise. 

Hope,  like  the  glimmering  taper's  light, 
Adorns,  and  cheers  the  way: 

And  still,  as  darker  grows  the  night. 
Emits  a  brighter  ray. 


THE  BUDDING  ROSE. 

Have  you  e'er  seen,  bathed  in  the  morning  dew, 
The  budding  rose  its  infant  bloom  display? 

When  first  its  virgin  tints  unfold  to  view, 

It  shrinks,  and  scarcely  trusts  the  blaze  of  day. 

So  soft,  so  delicate,  so  sweet  she  came. 

Youth's  damask  glow  just  dawning  on  her  cheek; 

I  gazed,  I  sighed,  I  caught  the  tender  flame, 
Felt  the  fond  pang,  and  drooped  with  passion 
weak. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  "THE  GOOD-NATURED 

MAN." 

A71  Apartment  in  Yming  Honeywood's  house. 
Enter  Sir  William  Honeywood  and  Jarvis. 

Sir  W.  Good  Jarvis,  make  no  apologies  for 
this  honest  bhmtness.  Fidelity  like  yoiu's  is 
the  best  excuse  for  every  freedom. 

Jar.  I  can't  help  being  blunt,  and  being  very 
angry  too,  wlien  I  hear  you  talk  of  disinherit- 
ing so  good,  so  worthy  a  young  gentleman,  as 
your  nephew,  my  master.  All  the  world  loves 
him. 

Sir  W.  Say,  rather,  that  he  loves  all  the 
world ;  that  is  his  fault. 

Jar.  I  am  sure  there  is  no  part  of  it  more 


158 


OLIVEE  GOLDSMITH. 


dear  to  him  than  you  are,  though  he  has  not 
seen  you  since  he  was  a  child. 

Sir  W.  What  signifies  his  affection  to  me, 
or  how  can  I  be  proud  of  a  place  in  a  heart 
where  every  sharper  and  coxcomb  find  an  easy 
entrance  ? 

Ja?:  I  gi-ant  you  that  he's  rather  too  good- 
natured;  that  he's  too  much  every  man's  man; 
that  he  laughs  tliis  minute  with  one,  and  cries 
the  next  with  another;  but  whose  instructions 
may  he  thank  for  all  this? 

Sir  ir.  Not  mine,  sure  !  My  letters  to  him, 
during  my  employment  in  Italy,  taught  him 
only  that  jihilosopliy  which  might  prevent, 
not  defend,  his  errors. 

Jar.  Faith  !  begging  your  honour's  pardon, 
this  same  pliilosophy  is  a  good  horse  in  the 
stable,  but  an  errant  jade  on  a  journey. 
AVhenever  I  hear  him  mention  the  name  on't, 
I  am  always  sure  he  is  going  to  play  the  fool. 
Sir  W.  Don't  let  us  ascribe  his  faults  to  his 
philosophy,  I  entreat  you.  No,  Jarvis;  his 
good-nature  arises  rather  from  his  fears  of 
offending  the  importunate  than  his  desire  of 
making  the  deservLug  happy. 

Jar.  What  it  rises  from  I  don't  know ;  but, 
to  be  sm-e,  everybody  has  it  that  asks  it. 

Sir  W.  Ay,  or  that  does  not  ask  it.  I  have 
been  now  for  some  time  a  concealed  sjiectator 
of  his  follies,  and  find  them  as  boundless  as 
his  dissijiation. 

Jar.  And  yet,  faith,  he  has  some  fine  name 
or  other  for  them  all.  He  calls  his  extra- 
vagance generosity,  and  his  trusting  every- 
body universal  benevolence.  It  was  but  last 
week  he  went  security  for  a  fellow  whose  face 
he  scarce  knew,  and  that  he  called  an  act  of 
exalted  mu — mu — munificence; — ay,  that  was 
the  name  he  gave  it. 

Sir  W.  And  upon  that  I  proceed,  as  my  last 
effort,  though  with  very  little  hopes  to  reclaim 
him.  That  very  fellow  has  just  absconded, 
and  I  liave  taken  up  the  security.  Now  my 
intention  is  to  involve  him  in  fictitious  dis- 
tress, before  he  has  plunged  himself  in  real 
calamity;  to  arrest  him  for  that  very  debt,  to 
clap  an  officer  upon  him,  and  then  let  him  see 
which  of  his  friends  will  come  to  his  relief. 

Jar.  Well,  if  I  could  but  any  way  see  him 
thoroughly  vexed — yet,  faith,  I  believe  it  is 
imjjossible.  I  have  tried  to  fret  him  myself 
every  morning  these  three  years;  but,  instead 
of  being  angry,  he  sits  as  calmly  to  liear  me 
scold,  as  he  does  to  his  liairdresser. 

Sir  W.  We  must  try  him  once  more,  how- 
ever; and  I  don't  despair  of  succeeding;  as, 
by  your  means,  I  can  liave  frequent  oppor- 


tunity of  being  about  him,  without  being 
known.  What  a  pity  it  is,  Jarvis,  that  any 
man's  good-will  to  others  should  produce  so 
much  neglect  of  himself  as  to  require  correc- 
tion; yet  there  are  some  faults  so  nearly  allied 
to  excellence,  that  we  can  scarce  weed  out  the 
vice  without  eradicating  the  virtue. 

[Miss  Richland,  who  is  an  heiress,  and  loves 
young  Honeywood,  has  just  been  informed 
that  he  is  in  the  custody  of  two  bailiffs  in  his 
own  house,  and  determines  to  see  for  herself. 
She  sets  out  for  his  house  attended  by  her 
maid  Garnet.] 

Scene —  Towig  HoneywoocTs  House. 
Bailiff,  Honeywood,  Follower. 

Bailiff.  Look  ye,  sir,  I  have  arrested  as  good 
men  as  you  in  my  time ;  no  disparagement  of 
you  neither.  jSIen  that  would  go  forty  guineas 
on  a  game  of  cribbage.  I  challenge  the  town 
to  show  a  man  in  more  genteeler  practice  than 
myself. 

Honeyw.  Without  all  question,  Mr. .     I 

forget  your  name,  sir  ] 

Bailiff.  How  can  you  forget  what  you  never 
knew  ?  he,  he,  he  ! 

Honeyw.  May  I  beg  leave  to  ask  your  name  ? 

Bailiff.  Yes,  you  may. 

Honeyiv.  Then,  pray,  sir,  what  is  your  name  ? 

Bailiff.  That  I  didn't  promise  to  tell  you; 
he,  he,  he  !  A  joke  breaks  no  bones,  as  we  say 
among  us  that  practise  the  law. 

Honeyw.  You  may  have  reason  for  keeping 
it  a  secret,  perhaps. 

Bailiff.  The  law  does  nothing  without  rea- 
son. I'm  ashamed  to  tell  my  name  to  no  man, 
sir.  If  you  ciin  show  cause,  as  why,  upon  a 
special  capus,  that  I  should  prove  my  name 
— But,  come,  Timothy  Twitch  is  my  name. 
And,  now  you  know  my  name,  what  have  you 
to  say  to  that? 

Honeyiv.  Nothing  in  the  world,  good  Mi*. 
Twitch,  but  that  I  have  a  favour  to  ask, 
that's  all. 

Bailiff.  Ay,  favours  are  more  easily  asked 
than  granted,  as  we  say  among  us  that  prac- 
tise the  law.  I  have  taken  an  oath  against 
granting  favoixra.  Would  you  have  me  per- 
jure myself  ? 

Honeyw.  But  my  request  will  come  recom- 
mended in  so  strong  a  manner,  as,  I  believe, 
you'll  have  no  scruple.  {Pulling  out  his  ptirse.) 
The  thing  is  only  this :  I  believe  I  shall  be 
able  to  discharge  tliis  trifle  in  two  or  three 
days  at  farthest ;  but  as  I  would  not  liave  the 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


159 


affair  km^wii  for  the  workl,  1  have  thought  of 
keeping  you,  and  your  gooil  friend  liere,  about 
me  till  the  debt  is  discharged;  for  which  1 
shall  be  properly  grateful. 

Bailiff.  Oh!  that's  another  maxum,  and  alto- 
gether within  my  oath.  For  certain,  if  an 
honest  man  is  to  get  anything  by  a  thing, 
there's  no  reason  why  all  things  should  not  be 
done  in  civility. 

Honeyw.  Doubtless,  all  trades  must  live, 
Mr.  Twitch,  and  yours  is  a  necessary  one. 
(Gives  him  money.) 

Bailiff.  Oh !  your  honour;  I  hope  your  honour 
takes  nothing  amiss  as  I  does,  as  I  does  nothing 
but  my  duty  in  ao  doing.  I'm  sure  no  man  can 
say  I  ever  give  a  gentleman,  that  was  a  gentle- 
man, ill  usage.  If  I  saw  that  a  gentleman  was 
a  gentleman,  I  have  taken  money  not  to  see 
Jiim  for  ten  weeks  together. 

Honeyw.  Tenderness  is  a  virtue,  Mr.  Twitch. 

Bailiff.  Ay,  sir,  it's  a  perfect  treasure.  I 
love  to  see  a  gentleman  with  a  tender  heart. 
I  don't  know,  but  I  think  I  have  a  tender 
heart  myself.  If  all  that  I  have  lost  by  my 
heart  was  put  together,  it  would  make  a — but 
no  matter  for  that. 

Honeyw.  Don't  account  it  lost,  Mr.  Twitch. 
The  ingratitude  of  the  world  can  never  deprive 
us  of  the  conscious  happiness  of  having  acted 
with  humanity  ourselves. 

Bailiff.  Humanity,  sir,  is  a  jewel.  It's  better 
than  gold.  I  love  humanity.  People  may  say 
that  we  in  our  way  have  no  humanity ;  but 
I'll  show  you  my  humanity  this  moment. 
There's  my  follower  here,  little  Flanigan,  with 
ii  wife  and  four  children,  a  guinea  or  two  would 
be  more  to  him  than  twice  as  much  to  another. 
Now,  as  I  can't  show  him  any  humanity  myself, 
I  must  beg  you'll  do  it  for  me. 

Honeyiu.  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Twitch,  yours  is 
.a  most  powerful  recommendation.  {Giving 
money  to  the  Follower.) 

Bailiff.  Sir,  you're  a  gentleman.  I  see  you 
know  what  to  do  with  your  money.  But,  to 
business :  we  are  to  be  with  you  hei-e  as  your 
friends,  I  suppose.  But  set  in  case  company 
comes. — Little  Flanigan  here,  to  be  sure,  has 
a  good  face;  a  vei-y  good  face:  but  then,  he  is 
a  little  seedy,  as  we  say  among  us  that  prac- 
tise the  law.  Not  well  in  clothes.  Smoke  the 
pocket-holes. 

Honeyio.  Well,  that  shall  be  remedied  with- 
-out  delay. 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  Sir,  Miss  Richland  is  below. 
Honeyw.  How  unlucky !    Detain  her  a  mo- 


ment. We  must  improve,  my  good  friend, 
little  Mr.  Flanigan's  appearance  first.  Here, 
let  Mr.  Flanigan  have  a  suit  of  my  clothes — 
quick — the  brown  and  silver — Do  you  hear/ 

Servant.  That  your  honour  gave  away  to 
the  begging  gentleman  that  makes  verses, 
because  it  was  as  good  a.s  new. 

Honeyw.  The  white  and  gold  then. 

Servant.  That,  your  honour,  I  made  bold  to 
sell  because  it  was  good  for  nothing. 

Honeyw.  Well,  the  first  that  comes  to  hand 
then.  The  blue  and  gold.  I  believe  Mr. 
Flanigan  will  look  l)e8t  in  blue. 

\Exit  Flanigan. 

Bailiff.  Rabbit  me,  but  little  Flanigan  will 
look  well  in  anything.  Ah,  if  your  honour 
knew  that  bit  of  flesh  as  well  as  I  do,  you'd 
be  perfectly  in  love  with  him.  There's  not  a 
prettier  scout  in  the  four  counties  after  a  shy- 
cock  than  he.  Scents  like  a  hound ;  sticks 
like  a  weasel.  He  was  master  of  the  cere- 
monies to  the  black  queen  of  Morocco  when 
I  took  him  to  follow  me.  \^Re-enter  Flanigan.] 
Heh,  ecod,  I  think  he  looks  so  well,  that  I 
don't  care  if  I  have  a  suit  from  the  same  place 
for  myself. 

Honeyw.  Well,  well,  I  hear  the  lady  coming. 
Dear  Mr.  Twitch,  I  beg  you'll  give  your  friend 
directions  not  to  speak.  As  for  yourself,  I 
know  you  will  say  nothing  without  being 
directed. 

Bailiff.  Never  you  fear  me,  I'll  show  the 
lady  that  I  have  something  to  say  for  myself 
as  well  as  another.  One  man  has  one  way  of 
talking,  and  another  man  has  another,  that's 
all  the  difference  between  them. 

Enter  Miss  Richland  and  her  Maid. 

Miss  Rich.  You'll  be  surprised,  sir,  with  this 
visit.  But  you  know  I'm  yet  to  thank  you 
for  choosing  my  little  library. 

Honeyw.  Thanks,  madam,  are  unnecessary, 
as  it  was  I  that  was  obliged  by  your  com- 
mands. Chairs  here.  Two  of  my  very  good 
friends,  Mr.  Twitch  and  ]\Ir.  Flanigan.  Pray, 
gentlemen,  sit  without  ceremony. 

Miss  Rich.  Who  can  these  odd-looking  men 
be  ?  I  fear  it  is  as  I  was  informed.  It  must 
be  so.  {^Aside. 

Bailiff  {after  a  pause).  Pretty  weather, 
very  pretty  weather,  for  the  time  of  the  year, 
madam. 

Follower.  Very  good  circuit  weather  in  the 
country. 

Honeyw.  You  officers  are  generally  favour- 
ites among  the  ladies.     My  friends,  madam, 


160 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


have  been  upon  very  disagreeable  duty,  I 
assure  you.  The  fair  should,  in  some  measure, 
recompense  the  toils  of  the  brave. 

Miss  Rich.  Our  officers  do  indeed  deserve 
every  favour.  The  gentlemen  are  in  the  marine 
service,  I  presume,  sir? 

Honeyv).  Why,  madam,  they  do — occasion- 
ally serve  in  the  Fleet,  madam.  A  dangerous 
service. 

Miss  Rich.  I'm  told  so.  And  I  own,  it  has 
often  surprised  me,  that,  while  we  have  had  so 
many  instances  of  bravery  there,  we  have  had 
so  few  of  wit  at  home  to  praise  it. 

Honeyw.  I  grant,  madam,  that  our  poets 
have  not  written  as  our  soldiers  have  fought; 
but  they  have  done  all  they  could,  and  Hawke 
or  Amherst  could  do  no  more. 

Miss  Rich.  I'm  quite  displeased  when  I  see 
a  fine  subject  spoiled  by  a  dull  wiiter. 

Honeyw.  We  should  not  be  so  severe  against 
dull  writers,  madam.  It  is  ten  to  one,  but  the 
dullest  writer  exceeds  the  most  rigid  French 
critic  who  presumes  to  despise  him. 

Follower.  D the  French,  the  parle  vous, 

and  all  that  belong  to  them ! 

Miss  Rich.  Sir ! 

Honeyv:.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  honest  Mr.  Flanigan. 
A  true  English  officer,  madam ;  he's  not  con- 
tented with  beating  the  French,  but  he  will 
scold  them  too. 

Miss  Rich.  Yet,  Mr.  Honej'wood,  this  does 
not  convince  me  but  that  severity  in  criticism 
is  necessary.  It  was  our  first  adopting  the 
severity  of  French  taste  tliat  has  brought 
them  in  turn  to  taste  us. 

Bailiff.  Taste  us !  By  the  Lord,  madam,  tliey 
devour  us.  Give  Monseers  but  a  taste,  and 
they  come  in  for  a  bellyful. 

Miss  Rich.  Very  extraordinary  this. 

Follower.  But  very  true.  What  makes  the 
bread  rising?  the  parle  vous  that  devour  us. 
What  makes  the  mutton  five  pence  a  pound? 
the  parle  vous  that  eat  it  up.  What  makes 
the  beer  three-pence  halfpenny  a  pot — 

Honeyw.  Ah!  the  vulgar  rogues,  all  will  be 
out.  {Aside^  Right,  gentlemen,  very  right, 
upon  my  word,  and  quite  to  the  purpose.  They 
draw  a  parallel,  madam,  between  the  mental 
taste  and  that  of  our  senses.  We  are  injured 
as  much  by  French  severity  in  the  one,  as  by 
French  rapacity  in  the  other.  That's  their 
meaning. 

Miss  Rich.  Though  I  don't  see  the  force  of 
the  parallel,  yet,  I'll  own,  that  we  should 
sometimes  pardon  books,  as  we  do  our  friends 
that  liave  now  and  then  agreeable  absurdities 
to  recommend  them. 


Bailiff.  That's  all  my  eye.  The  king  only 
can  pardon,  as  the  law  says;  for  set  in  case 

Honeyw.  I'm  quite  of  your  opinion,  sir.  I 
see  the  whole  drift  of  your  argument.  Yes, 
certainly  our  presuming  to  pardon  any  woi'k, 
is  arrogating  a  power  that  belongs  to  another. 
If  all  have  power  to  condemn,  what  writer  can 
be  free  ? 

Bailiff.  By  his  habus  corpus.  His  habus 
corpus  can  set  him  free  at  any  time.  For  set 
in  case — 

Honeyw.  I'm  obliged  to  you,  sir,  for  the  hint. 
If,  madam,  as  my  friend  observes,  our  laws 
are  so  careful  of  a  gentleman's  person,  sure  we 
ought  to  be  equally  careful  of  his  dearer  part, 
his  fame. 

Follower.  Ay,  but  if  so  be  a  man's  nabbed, 
you  know — 

Honeyiv.  Mr.  Flanigan,  if  you  spoke  for  ever 
you  could  not  improve  the  last  observation. 
For  my  own  part  I  think  it  conclusive. 

Bailiff.  As  for  the  matter  of  that,  mayhap — 

Honeyw.  Nay,  sir,  give  me  leave  in  this  in- 
stance to  be  positive.  For  where  is  the  necessity 
of  censuring  works  without  genius,  which  must 
shortly  sink  of  themselves:  what  is  it,  but 
aiming  our  unnecessary  blow  against  a  victim 
already  under  the  hands  of  justice? 

Bailiff.  Justice !  O,  by  the  elevens,  if  you 
talk  about  justice,  I  think  I  am  at  home  there; 
for,  in  a  coui-se  of  law — 

Honey  10.  My  dear  Mr.  Twitch,  I  discern 
what  you'd  be  at  perfectly,  and  I  believe  the 
lady  must  be  sensible  of  the  art  with  wdiich  it 
is  introduced.  I  suppose  you  perceive  the 
meaning,  madam,  of  his  course  of  law? 

Miss  Rich.  I  protest,  sir,  I  do  not.  I  per- 
ceive only  that  you  answer  one  gentleman 
before  he  has  finished,  and  the  other  before 
he  has  well  begun. 

Bailiff.  Madam,  you  are  a  gentlewoman, 
and  I  will  make  the  matter  out.  This  hei'e 
question  is  about  severity  and  justice,  and 
pardon,  and  the  like  of  they.  Now  to  explain 
the  thing — 

Honeyw.  O  !  curse  your  ex))lanations. 

\_Aside. 
Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  Mr.  Leontine,  air,  below,  desires  to 
speak  with  you  U})on  earnest  business. 

HoneyiD.  That's  lucky.  (Aside.)  Dear  madam, 
you'll  excuse  me  and  my  good  friends  here  for 
a  few  minutes.  There  are  books,  madam,  to 
amu.se  you.  Come,  gentlemen,  you  know  I 
make  no  ceremony  with  such  friends.  Aft«r 
you,  sir.  Excuse  me.  Well,  if  I  must ;  but 
I  know  your  natural  politeness. 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


161 


Bailiff.  Before  and  behind,  you  know. 

Follower.  Ay,  ay ;  before  and  behind,  before 
and  behind. 

[^Exeunt  Honeyioood,  Bailiff,  and  Follower. 

Miss  Rich.  What  can  all  this  mean,  (iarnet  ? 

Gar.  Mean,  madam  /  Why,  what  should  it 
mean  but  what  Mr.  Lofty  sent  you  here  to 
seel  These  people  he  calls  officei-s  are  officers 
sure  enough — sheriff's  oflicers. 

Miss  Rich .  Ay,  it  is  certainly  so.  Well,  though 
his  perplexities  are  far  from  giving  me  plea- 
sure, yet  I  own  there's  something  very  ridicu- 
lous in  them,  and  a  just  punishment  for  his 
dissimulation. 

Oar.  And  so  they  are.  But  I  wonder, 
madam,  that  the  lawyer  you  just  employed  to 
pay  his  debts  and  set  him  free  has  not  done  it 
this  time ;  he  ought  at  least  to  have  been  hei-e 
before  now. 


Sir  William  Honeywood  alone. 
Enter  Jarvis. 

Sir  W.  How  now,  Jarvis?  Where's  your 
master,  my  nephew? 

Jar.  At  his  wit's  end,  I  believe.  He  is 
scarce  gotten  out  of  one  scrape  but  he's  running 
his  head  into  another. 

Sir  W.  How  so? 

Jar.  The  house  has  but  just  been  cleared 
of  the  bailiffs,  and  now  he's  again  engaging, 
tooth  and  nail,  in  assisting  old  Croaker's  son  to 
patch  up  a  clandestine  match  with  the  young 
lady  that  passes  in  the  house  for  his  sister. 

Sir  W.  Ever  busy  to  serve  others. 

Jar.  Ay,  anybody  but  himself.  The  young 
couple,  it  seems,  are  just  setting  out  for  Scot- 
land, and  he  supplies  them  with  money  for 
the  journey. 

Sir  W.  Money  I  How  is  he  able  to  supply 
others,  who  has    carce  any  for  himself  ? 

Jar.  Why,  there  it  is;  he  has  no  money, 
that's  true ;  but  then,  as  he  never  said  no  to 
any  request  in  his  life,  he  has  given  them  a 
bill  drawn  by  a  friend  of  his  upon  a  merchant 
in  tlie  city,  which  I  am  to  get  changed ;  for 
you  must  know  that  I  am  to  go  with  them  to 
Scotland  myself. 

Sir  W.  How? 

Jar.  It  seems  the  young  gentleman  is  ob- 
liged to  take  a  different  road  from  his  mistress, 
as  he  is  to  call  upon  an  uncle  of  liis  that  lives 
out  of  the  way,  in  order  to  prepare  a  place  for 
their  reception  when  they  return ;  so  they 
have  borrowed  me  from  my  master,  ;xs  the 
properest  person  to  attend  the  young  lady 
down. 

VOL.  I. 


Sir  W.  To  the  laud  of  matrimony?  A  plea- 
sant journey,  Jarvis ! 

Jar.  Ay,  but  I'm  only  to  have  all  the  fatigues 
on't. 

Sir  W.  Well,  it  may  be  shorter  and  less 
fatiguing  than  you  imagine.  I  know  but  too 
nmch  of  the  young  lady's  family  and  connec- 
tions, whom  I  have  seen  abroad.  I  have  also 
discovered  that  Mi.ss  Richland  is  not  indif- 
ferent to  my  thoughtless  nepliew ;  and  will 
endeavour,  though  I  fear  in  vain,  to  establish 
that  connection.  But  come,  the  letter  I  wait 
for  must  be  almost  finished  ;  I'll  let  you  fur- 
ther into  my  intentions  in  the  next  room. 

^Exeunt. 

[Sir  William  and  Jarvis  by  a  well-con- 
trived plot  manage  to  bring  all  parties  to- 
gether at  an  inn,  where  old  Croakei-'s  son  and 
his  intended  wife,  whom  the  nephew  thought 
to  assist,  are  forced  to  remain  because  of  the 
bill  being  protested,  and  no  money  to  be 
had.  They  reproach  young  Honeywood  with 
trying  to  betray  them.  While  he  attempts 
to  explain,  his  Uncle  and  Miss  Richland 
appear.  Sir  William  makes  peace  for  the 
runaways  with  the  father,  old  Croaker.  Miss 
Richland  and  young  Honeywood  are  to  be 
married,  and  all  ends  with  this  advice  from 
Sir  William  to  his  nephew.] 

Sir  W.  Henceforth,  nephew,  learn  to  respect 
yourself.  He  who  seeks  only  for  applause 
from  without  has  all  the  happiness  in  an- 
other's keeping. 

Hon.  Yes,  sir ;  I  now  too  plainly  perceive 
my  errors — my  vanity,  in  attempting  to  please 
all,  by  fearing  to  offend  any ;  my  meanness  in 
approving  folly,  lest  fools  sliould  disapprove. 
Henceforth  it  shall  be  my  study  to  reserve  my 
pity  for  real  distress ;  my  friendshij)  for  true 
merit ;  and  love  for  her  who  first  taught  me 
what  it  is  to  be  hap])y. 


MRS.    HARDCASTLE. 

(from  "she  stoops  to  conquer.") 

[Mrs.  Hardcastle  is  anxious  for  a  match  be- 
tween her  son  the  vulgar  Tony,  and  her 
handsome  niece  Constance  Neville,  who  medi- 
tates elopement  with  her  lover  Hastings.] 

Enter  Tony  ajid  Miss  Neville,  followed  by 
Mrs.  Hardcastle  and  Hastings. 

Tony.  What  do  you  follow  me  for,  Cousin 
Con  ?  I  wonder  you're  not  ashamed  to  be  so 
very  engaging. 

11 


162 


OLIVEE   GOLDSMITH. 


Miss  Nev.  I  hope,  cousin,  one  may  speak  to 
one's  own  relations,  and  not  be  to  blame  / 

Tony.  Ay,  but  I  know  what  sort  of  a  rela- 
tion you  want  to  make  me,  though;  but  it 
won't  do.  I  tell  you.  Cousin  Con,  it  won't  do, 
so  I  beg  you'll  keep  your  distance ;  I  want  no 
nearer  relationship. 
[She  follows,  coquetting  him  to  the  hack  scene. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Well !  I  vow,  Mr.  Hastings, 
you  are  very  entertaining.  There's  nothing  in 
the  world  I  love  to  talk  of  so  much  as  London, 
and  the  fashions,  though  I  was  never  there 
myself. 

Hast.  Never  there  !  You  amaze  me  !  From 
your  air  and  manner  I  concluded  you  had 
been  bred  all  your  life  either  at  Eaiielagh,  St. 
James's,  or  Tower  Wharf. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Oh !  sir,  you're  only  pleased  to 
say  so.  We  country  persons  can  have  no 
manner  at  all.  I'm  in  love  with  the  town, 
and  that  serves  to  raise  me  above  some  of  our 
neighbouring  rustics;  but  who  can  have  a 
manner  that  has  never  seen  the  Pantheon,  the 
Grotto  Gardens,  the  Borough,  and  such  places 
where  the  nobility  chiefly  resort?  All  I  can 
do  is  to  enjoy  London  at  second-hand.  I  take 
care  to  know  every  tete-a-tete  from  the  Scan- 
dalous Magazine,  and  have  aU  the  fashions,  as 
they  come  out,  in  a  letter  from  the  two  Miss 
Rickets  of  Crooked  Lane,  Pray,  how  do  you 
like  this  head,  Mr.  Hastings? 

Hast.  Extremely  elegant  and  degagee,  upon 
my  word,  madam.  Your  friseur  is  a  French- 
man, I  suppose? 

Mrs.  Hard.  I  protest  I  dressed  it  myself 
from  a  print  in  the  Ladies'  Memorandum 
Book  for  the  last  year. 

Hast.  Indeed  !  such  a  head  in  a  side-box,  at 
the  play-house,  would  draw  as  many  gazers  as 
my  Lady  Mayoress  at  a  city  b;ill. 

Mrs.  Hard.  I  vow,  since  inoculation  began 
there  is  no  such  thing  to  be  seen  as  a  plain 
woman ;  so  one  must  dress  a  little  particular, 
or  one  may  escape  in  the  crowd. 

Hast.  But  that  can  never  be  your  case, 
madam,  in  any  dress.     {Boiving.) 

Mrs.  Hard.  Yet  what  signifies  my  dressing 
when  I  have  such  a  jnece  of  antiquity  by  my 
side  as  Mr.  Hardcastle  ?  AU  I  can  say  will 
not  argue  down  a  single  button  from  his 
olothes.  I  have  often  wanted  him  to  throw 
off  his  great  flaxen  wig,  and  where  he  was 
bald,  to  i)laster  it  over,  like  my  Lord  Pately, 
with  powder. 

Hast.  You  are  right,  madam ;  for  as  among 
the  ladies  there  are  none  ugly,  so  anumg  the 
men  there  are  none  old. 


Mrs.  Hard.  But  what  do  you  think  his 
answer  was?  Why,  with  his  usual  Gothic 
vivacity,  he  said,  I  only  wanted  him  to  throw 
off  his  wig,  to  convert  it  into  a  tete  for  my 
own  wearing. 

Hast.  Intolerable !  At  your  age  you  may 
wear  what  you  please,  and  it  must  become  you. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Pray,  Mr.  Hastings,  what  do 
you  take  to  be  the  most  fashionable  age  about 
town  ? 

Hast.  Some  time  ago  forty  was  all  the  mode ; 
but  I'm  told  the  ladies  intend  to  bring  up  fifty 
for  the  ensuing  winter. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Seriously !  then  I  shall  be  too 
young  for  the  fashion. 

Ha^t.  No  lady  begins  now  to  put  on  jewels 
till  she's  past  forty.  For  instance,  Miss  there, 
in  a  polite  circle,  would  be  considered  as  a 
child,  as  a  mere  maker  of  samplers. 

Mrs.  Hard.  And  yet  Mrs.  Niece  thinks  her- 
self as  much  a  woman,  and  is  as  fond  of  jewels, 
as  the  oldest  of  us  all. 

Hast.  Your  niece,  is  she?  and  that  young 
gentleman  a  brother  of  yours,  I  should  pre- 
sume ? 

Mrs.  Hard.  My  sou,  sir.  They  are  con- 
tracted to  each  other.  Observe  their  little 
sports.  They  fall  in  and  out  ten  times  a  day, 
as  if  they  were  man  and  wife  already.  {To 
them.)  Well,  Tony,  child,  what  soft  things 
are  you  saying  to  your  cousin  Constance  this 
evening? 

Tony.  I  have  been  saying  no  soft  things ; 
but  that  it's  very  hard  to  be  followed  about  so. 
Ecod,  I've  not  a  place  in  the  house  now  that's 
left  to  myself,  but  the  stable. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Never  mind  him.  Con,  my  dear. 
He's  in  another  story  behind  your  back. 

Miss  Nev.  There's  something  generous  in 
my  cousin's  manner.  He  falls  out  before  faces 
to  be  forgiven  in  private. 

Tony.  That's  a  confounded — ^crack. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Ah  !  he's  a  sly  one.  Don't  you 
think  they're  like  each  other  about  the  mouth, 
Mr.  Hastings?  The  Blenkinsop  mouth  to  a 
T.  They're  of  a  size,  too.  Back  to  back,  my 
pretties,  that  Mr.  Hastings  may  see  you. 
Come,  Tony. 

Tony.  You  had  as  good  not  make  me,  I 
tell  you.  [Measuring. 

Miss  Nev.  Oh !  he  has  almost  cracked  my 
head. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Oh,  the  monster !  For  shame, 
Tony.     You  a  man,  and  behave  so ! 

To7iy.  If  I'm  a  man,  let  me  have  my  fortin. 
Ecod,  I'll  not  be  made  a  fool  of  no  longer. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Is  this,  ungrateful  boy,  all  that 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


163 


I'm  to  get  for  the  pains  I  have  taken  in  your 
education  ?  I  that  have  rocked  you  in  your 
cradle,  and  fed  that  pretty  mouth  witli  u 
spoon?  Did  not  I  work  that  waistcoat  to 
make  you  genteel  /  Did  not  I  prescribe  for 
you  every  day,  and  weep  while  the  receipt 
wjis  operating  ( 

Tony.  Ecod,  you  had  reason  to  weep,  for 
you  have  been  dosing  me  ever  since  I  was 
born.  I  have  gone  through  every  receipt  in 
the  Complete  Ihiswife  ten  times  over;  and  you 
have  thoughts  of  coursing  me  through  Q^iincy 
next  spring.  But,  ecod,  I  tell  you,  I'll  not  be 
made  a  fool  of  no  longer. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Wasn't  it  all  for  your  good, 
viper  ]     Wasn't  it  all  for  yom'  good  ? 

Tony.  I  wish  you'd  let  me  and  my  good 
alone,  then.  Snubbing  this  way,  when  I'm  in 
spirits.  If  I'm  to  have  any  good,  let  it  come 
of  itself;  not  to  keep  dinging  it,  dinging  it 
into  one  so. 

Mrs.  Hard.  That's  false;  I  never  see  you 
when  you  are  in  spirits.  No,  Tony,  you  tlien 
go  to  the  alehouse,  or  kemiel.  I'm  never  to 
be  delighted  with  your  agi-eeable  wild  notes, 
unfeeling  monster ! 

Tony.  Ecod,  mamma,  your  own  notes  are 
the  wildest  of  the  two. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Was  ever  the  like !  But  I  see 
he  wants  to  break  my  heart,  I  see  he  does. 

Hast.  Dear  madam,  permit  me  to  lecture 
the  young  gentleman  a  little.  I'm  certain  I 
can  persuade  him  to  his  duty. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Well !  I  must  retire.  Come, 
Constance,  my  love.  You  see,  Mr.  Hastings, 
the  wretchedness  of  my  situation.  Was  ever 
poor  woman  so  plagued  with  a  deax-,  sweet, 
pretty,  provoking,  undutiful  boy? 

{Exeunt  Mrs.  Hard,  and  Miss  Neville.) 

Hastings.    Tony. 

Tony.  (JShigvig.) 

There  was  a  young  man  riding  by, 
And  fain  would  have  liis  will. 

Rang  do  didlo  dee. 

Don't  mind  her.  Let  her  cry.  It's  the  com- 
fort of  her  heart.  I  have  seen  her  and  sister 
cry  over  a  book  for  an  hour  together;  and 
they  said  they  liked  the  book  the  better  the 
more  it  made  them  cry. 

Hast.  Then  you're  no  friend  to  the  ladies,  I 
find,  my  pretty  young  gentleman. 

Tony.  That's  as  I  find  'um. 

Hast.  Not  to  her  of  your  mother's  choosing, 
I  dare  answer :  and  yet  she  appears  to  me  a 
pretty,  well-tempered  girl. 


Tony.  That's  because  you  don't  know  her 
as  well  as  I.  Ecod,  I  know  every  inch  about 
her,  and  there's  not  a  more  bitter,  cantanker- 
ous toad  in  all  Cln-isteudom. 

Hast.  {Aside.)  Pretty  encouragement  this 
for  a  lover. 

Tony.  I  have  seen  her  since  the  height  of 
that.  She  has  as  many  tricks  as  a  hare  in  a 
thicket,  or  a  colt  the  hret  day's  breaking. 

Hast.  To  me  she  appears  sensible  and  silent. 

Tony.  Ay,  before  company.  But  wlien 
she's  with  her  playmates  she's  as  loud  as  a  hog 
in  a  gate. 

Hast.  But  there  is  a  meek  modesty  about 
her  that  chanus  me. 

Tony.  Yes  ;  but  curb  her  never  so  little,  she 
kicks  up,  and  you're  flung  in  a  ditch. 

Hast.  Well,  but  you  must  allow  her  a  little 
beauty.    Yes,  you  must  allow  her  some  beauty. 

Tony.  Bandbox !  She's  all  a  made  up  thing, 
mun.  Ah !  could  you  but  see  Bet  Bouncer, 
of  these  parts,  you  might  then  talk  of  beauty. 
Ecod,  she  has  two  eyes  as  black  as  sloes,  and 
cheeks  as  In-oad  and  red  as  a  pulpit  cushion. 
She'd  make  two  of  she. 

Hast.  Well,  what  say  you  to  a  friend  that 
would  take  this  bitter  bargain  off  your  hands  ? 

Tony.  Anon ! 

Hast.  Would  you  thank  him  that  would 
take  Miss  Neville,  and  leave  you  to  hapjjiness 
and  your  dear  Betsy  ? 

Tony.  Ay;  but  where  is  there  such  a  friend  ? 
for  who  would  take  her  ? 

Hast.  I  am  he.  If  you  but  assist  me,  I'll 
engage  to  whij)  her  ofi"  to  France,  and  you 
shall  never  hear  more  of  her. 

Tony.  Assist  you  !  Ecod,  I  will  to  the  last 
drop  of  my  blood.  I'll  clap  a  pair  of  hoi-ses 
to  your  chaise  that  shall  trundle  you  off  in 
a  twinkling;  and  may  be,  get  you  a  jiart  of 
her  fortin  beside,  in  jewels,  tliat  you  little 
dream  of. 

Hast.  My  dear  'squire,  this  looks  like  a  lad 
of  spirit. 

Tony.  Come  along  then,  and  you  shall  see 
more  of  my  spirit  before  you  have  done  with 
me. 


THE    GENTLEMAN    IN    BLACK. 

(FROM  "THE  CITIZEN   OF  THE  WORLD.") 

I  am  just  returned  from  Westminster,  the 
place  of  sepulture  for  the  philosoi^hei-s,  heroes, 
and  kings  of  England.  What  a  gloom  do 
monumental  inscriptions  and  all  the  venerable 


164 


OLIVEE  GOLDSMITH. 


remains  of  deceased  merit  inspire  !  Imagine 
a  temple  marked  with  the  hand  of  antiquity, 
solemn  as  religious  awe,  adorned  with  all  the 
magnificence  of  barbarous  profusion,  dim  win- 
dows, fretted  pillars,  long  colonnades,  and 
dark  ceilings.  Think,  then,  what  were  my 
sensations  at  being  introduced  to  such  a  scene. 
I  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  temple,  and  threw 
my  eyes  round  on  the  walls,  filled  with  the 
statues,  the  inscriptions,  and  the  monuments 
of  the  dead. 

Alas,  I  said  to  myself,  how  does  pride 
attend  the  puny  child  of  dust  even  to  the 
grave  !  Even  humble  as  I  am,  I  possess  more 
consequence  in  the  present  scene  than  the 
greatest  hero  of  them  all;  they  have  toiled 
for  an  hour  to  gain  a  transient  immortality, 
and  are  at  length  retired  to  the  grave,  where 
they  have  no  attendant  but  the  worm,  none  to 
flatter  but  the  ei^itaph. 

As  I  was  indulging  such  reflections  a  gentle- 
man, dressed  in  black,  perceiving  me  to  be  a 
stranger,  came  up,  entered  into  conversation, 
and  politely  offered  to  be  my  instructor  and 
guide  through  the  temple.  "If  any  monu- 
ment," said  he,  "should  particularly  excite 
your  curiosity,  I  shall  endeavoui-  to  satisfy 
youi"  demands."  I  accepted  with  thanks  the 
gentleman's  offer,  adding,  that  "I  was  come 
to  observe  the  policy,  the  wisdom,  and  the 
justice  of  the  English  in  conferring  rewards 
upon  deceased  merit.  If  adulation  like  this 
(continued  I)  be  properly  conducted,  as  it  can 
noways  injure  those  who  are  flattered,  so  it 
may  be  a  glorious  incentive  to  those  who  are 
now  capable  of  enjoying  it.  It  is  the  duty  of 
every  good  government  to  turn  this  monu- 
mental pride  to  its  own  advantage ;  to  become 
strong  in  the  aggregate  from  the  weakness  of 
the  individual.  If  none  but  the  truly  great 
have  a  place  in  this  awful  repository,  a  temple 
like  this  will  give  the  finest  lessons  of  morality, 
and  lie  a  strong  incentive  to  true  merit."  The 
man  in  black  seemed  impatient  at  my  observa- 
tions ;  so  I  discontinued  my  remarks,  and  we 
walked  on  together  to  take  a  view  of  every 
particular  monument  in  order  as  it  lay. 

As  the  eye  is  naturally  caught  by  the  finest 
objects,  I  coidd  not  avoid  being  particularly 
curious  about  one  monument,  which  appeared 
more  beautiful  than  the  rest :  "  That,"  said  I 
to  my  guide,  "  I  take  to  be  the  tomb  of  some 
very  great  man.  By  the  peculiar  excellence 
of  the  workmanship  and  the  magnificence  of 
the  design  this  must  1)e  a  trophy  raised  to  the 
memory  of  some  king  who  has  saved  his 
country  from  ruin,  or  lawgiver  who  has  re- 


duced his  fellow-citizens  from  anarchy  into 
just  subjection." — "  It  is  not  requisite,"  replied 
my  companion,  smiling,  "  to  have  such  quali- 
fications in  order  to  have  a  very  fine  monu- 
ment here.  More  humble  abilities  will  suf- 
fice."— "  What !  I  suppose,  then,  the  gaining 
two  or  three  battles,  or  the  taking  half  a  score 
towns,  is  thought  a  sufficient  qualification?" 
— "  Gaining  battles  or  taking  towns,"  replied 
the  man  in  black,  "  may  be  of  service :  but  a 
gentleman  may  have  a  very  fine  monument 
here  without  ever  seeing  a  battle  or  a  siege." — 
"  This,  then,  is  the  monument  of  some  poet,  I 
presume ;  of  one  whose  wit  has  gained  him 
immortality  !" — "  No,  sir,"  replied  my  guide  ; 
"  the  gentleman  who  lies  here  never  made 
verses,  and  as  for  wit,  he  despised  it  in  othei's, 
because  he  had  none  himself." — "  Pray  tell  me 
then  in  a  word,"  said  I,  peevishly,  "  what  is 
the  great  man  who  lies  here  particularly  re- 
markable for?" — "Remarkable,  sir!"  said  my 
companion,  "  why,  sir,  the  gentleman  that  lies 
here  is  remarkable,  very  remarkable — for  a 
tomb  in  Westminster  Abbey." — "  But,  head  of 
my  ancestors  !  how  has  he  got  here !  I  fancy 
he  could  never  bribe  the  guardians  of  the 
temple  to  give  him  a  place.  Should  he  not  be 
ashamed  to  be  seen  among  company  where 
even  moderate  merit  would  look  like  infamy?" 
— "  I  supjDose,"  replied  the  man  in  black,  "the 
gentleman  was  rich,  and  his  fi'iends,  it  is  usual 
in  such  a  case,  told  him  he  was  gi-eat.  He 
readily  believed  them ;  the  guardians  of  the 
temple,  as  they  got  by  the  self-delusion,  were 
ready  to  believe  him  too :  so  he  paid  his  money 
for  a  fine  monument,  and  the  workman,  as 
you  see,  has  made  him  one  of  the  most  beauti- 
ful. Think  not,  however,  that  this  gentleman 
is  singular  in  his  desii-e  of  being  buried  among 
the  great ;  there  are  several  others  in  the 
temple,  who,  hated  and  shunned  by  the  great 
while  alive,  have  come  here,  fully  resolved  to 
kee])  tli«m  company  now  they  are  dead." 

As  we  walked  along  to  a  particular  part  of 
the  temple,  "  There,"  says  the  gentleman, 
pointing  with  his  finger, — "  that  is  the  poet's 
corner;  there  you  see  the  monuments  of  Shak- 
spere,  and  Milton,  and  Prior,  and  Drayton." 
— "  Drayton  ! "  I  replied,  "  I  never  heard  of 
him  before ;  but  I  have  been  told  of  one  Pope, 
— is  he  there?" — "  It  is  time  enough,"  replied 
my  guide,  "these  hundred  years;  he  is  not 
long  dead ;  ])eople  have  not  done  hating  him 
yet."- — "  Strange,"  cried  I ;  "  can  any  be  found 
to  hate  a  man  whose  life  was  wholly  spent  in 
entertaining  and  instructing  his  fellow-crea- 
tures?"— "Yes,"  says  my  guide,  "they  hate 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


165 


hiinfor  th;it  very  reason.  There  are  a  set  of  men 
called  answerers  of  books,  who  take  upon  them 
to  watch  the  republic  of  lettei-s,  and  distribute 
reputation  by  the  sheet ;  they  somewhat  re- 
semble the  eunuchs  in  a  seraglio,  who  are  in- 
ca{)able  of  giving  pleasure  themselves,  and 
hinder  those  that  would.  These  auswerei-s 
have  no  other  employment  but  to  cry  out 
'dunce,'  and  'scribbler,'  to  praise  the  dead 
and  revile  the  living;  to  grant  a  man  of  con- 
fessed abilities  some  small  share  of  merit;  to 
applaud  twenty  blockheads,  in  order  to  gain 
the  reputation  of  candour ;  and  to  revile  the 
moral  character  of  the  man  whose  writings 
they  cannot  injure.  Such  wretches  are  kept  in 
pay  by  some  mercenary  bookseller,  or  more  fre- 
quently the  bookseller  himself  takes  this  dirty 
work  otf  their  hands,  as  all  that  is  required  is 
to  be  very  abusive  and  very  dull.  Every  poet 
of  any  genius  is  sure  to  find  such  enemies :  he 
feels,  though  he  seems  to  despise,  theii-  malice; 
they  make  him  miserable  here;  and  in  the 
pursuit  of  empty  fame,  at  last  he  gains  solid 
anxiety." 

"  Has  this  been  the  case  with  every  jjoet  I 
see  here  V  cried  I. — "  Yes,  with  every  mother's 
son  of  them,"  replied  he,  "  except  he  happened 
to  be  born  a  mandarin.  If  he  has  much  money 
he  may  buy  reputation  from  your  book- 
answerers,  as  well  as  a  monument  from  the 
guardians  of  the  temple." 

"  But  are  there  not  some  men  of  distinguished 
taste,  as  in  China,  who  are  willing  to  patronize 
men  of  merit,  and  soften  the  rancour  of  male- 
volent dulness  r' 

"  I  own  there  are  many,"  replied  the  man 
in  black  ;  "  but,  alas  !  sir,  the  book-answerers 
crowd  about  them,  and  call  themselves  the 
writers  of  books;  and  the  patron  is  too  in- 
dolent to  distinguish :  thus  poets  are  kept  at 
a  distance,  wdiile  their  enemies  eat  up  all  their 
rewards  at  the  mandarin's  table." 

Leaving  this  part  of  the  temple,  we  made 
up  to  an  iron  gate,  through  which  my  com- 
panion told  me  we  were  to  pass  in  order  to  see 
the  monuments  of  the  kings.  Accordingly  I 
marched  up  without  farther  ceremony,  and 
was  going  to  enter,  when  a  person  who  held 
the  gate  in  his  hand,  told  me  I  must  j^ay  first. 
I  was  surprised  at  such  a  demand,  and  asked 
the  man,  "  whether  the  people  of  England 
kept  a  show?  whether  the  paltiy  sum  he  de- 
manded was  not  a  national  reproach  1  whether 
it  was  not  more  to  the  honour  of  the  country 
to  let  their  magnificence  or  their  antiquities 
be  openly  seen,  than  thus  meanly  to  tax  a 
curiosity  which  tended  to  their  own  honour?" 


"  As  for  your  questions,"  replied  the  gate- 
keeper, "  to  be  sure  they  may  be  very  right, 
because  I  don't  understand  them :  but  as  for 
that  threepence,  I  farm  it  from  one  who  rents 
it  from  another,  who  hires  it  from  a  third,  who 
leases  it  from  the  guardians  of  the  temple ; 
and  we  all  must  live."  I  expected  upon  pay- 
ing here  to  see  something  extraordinary,  since 
what  I  had  seen  for  nothing  filled  me  with 
so  much  surprise ;  but  in  this  I  was  dis- 
appointed ;  there  was  little  more  within  than 
bhick  coffins,  rusty  armour,  tattered  standards, 
and  some  few  slovenly  figures  in  wax.  I  was 
sorry  I  had  paid,  but  I  comforted  myself  by 
considering  it  would  be  my  last  payment.  A 
person  attended  us,  who,  without  once  blush- 
ing, told  a  hundred  lies :  he  talked  of  a  lady 
who  died  by  pricking  her  finger;  of  a  king 
with  a  golden  head,  and  twenty  such  pieces  of 
absm-dity. — "  Look  ye  there,  gentlemen,"  says 
he,  pointing  to  an  old  oak  chair,  "there's  a 
curiosity  for  ye :  in  that  chair  the  kings  of 
England  were  crowned ;  you  see  also  a  stone 
underneath,  and  that  stone  is  Jacob's  pillow." 
I  could  see  no  curiosity  either  in  the  oak  chair 
or  the  stone :  could  I,  indeed,  behold  one  of 
the  old  kings  of  England  seated  in  this,  or 
Jacob's  head  laid  upon  the  other,  there  might 
be  something  curious  in  the  sight ;  but  in  the 
present  case  there  was  no  more  reason  for  my 
surprise  than  if  I  should  pick  a  stone  from 
their  streets,  and  call  it  a  curiosity,  merely  be- 
cause one  of  the  kings  happened  to  tread  upon 
it  as  he  passed  in  a  procession. 

From  hence  our  conductor  led  us  thi'ough 
several  dark  walks  and  winding  ways,  utter- 
ing lies,  talking  to  himself,  and  flourishing  a 
wand  which  he  held  in  his  hand.  He  reminded 
me  of  the  black  magicians  of  Kobi.  After  we 
had  been  almost  fatigued  with  a  vai-iety  of 
objects,  he  at  last  desired  me  to  consider 
attentively  a  certain  suit  of  armour,  which 
seemed  to  show  nothing  remarkable.  "  This 
armour,"  said  he,  "belonged  to  General  Monk." 
—  "Very  surprising,  that  a  general  should 
wear-  annour !" — "  And  pray,'"  added  he,  "  ob- 
serve this  cap ;  this  is  General  Monk's  caj).' 
— "  Very  strange  indeed,  very  strange,  that  a 
general  should  have  a  cap  also  !  Pray,  friend, 
what  might  this  cap  have  cost  originally?" — 
"  That,  sir,"  says  he,  "  I  don't  know ;  but  this 
cap  is  all  the  wages  I  have  for  my  trouble." — 
"  A  very  small  recompense,  truly,"  said  I.  — 
"  Not  so  very  small,"  replied  he,  "  for  every 
gentleman  puts  some  money  into  it,  and  I  spend 
the  money." — "  AVhat !  more  money  !  Still 
more    money!"  —  "Every    gentleman    gives 


166 


OLIVEE  GOLDSMITH. 


something,  sir." — "  I'll  give  thee  uothing,"  re- 
turned I :  "  the  guardians  of  the  temjile  should 
pay  your  wages,  friend,  and  not  permit  you  to 
squeeze  thus  from  every  spectator.  When  we 
pay  our  money  at  the  door  to  see  a  show,  we 
never  give  more  as  we  are  going  out.  Sure 
the  guardians  of  the  temple  can  never  think 
they  get  enough.  Show  me  the  gate ;  if  I  stay 
longer  I  may  probably  meet  with  more  of  those 
ecclesiastical  beggars." 

Thus  leaving  the  temple  precipitately,  I  re- 
turned to  my  lodgings,  in  order  to  ruminate 
over  what  was  great,  and  to  despise  what  was 
mean,  in  the  occm-reuces  of  the  day. 


ADVICE   TO    THE   LADIES, 

WITH    AN    ILLUSTRATIVE    INDIAN    TALE. 

(FROM   "THE   CITIZEN   OF  THE   WORLD.") 

As  the  instruction  of  the  fair  sex  in  this 
country  is  entirely  committed  to  the  care  of 
foreigners,  as  their  language-masters,  music- 
mastere,  hair-frizzers,  and  governesses  are  all 
from  abroad,  I  had  some  intentions  of  ojaening 
a  female  academy  myself,  and  made  no  doubt, 
as  I  was  quite  a  foreigner,  of  meeting  a  favour- 
able reception. 

In  this  I  intended  to  instruct  the  ladies  in 
all  the  conjugal  mysteries ;  wives  should  be 
taught  the  art  of  managing  husbands,  and 
maids  the  skill  of  properly  choosing  them ;  I 
would  teach  a  wife  how  far  she  might  venture 
to  be  sick  without  giving  disgiTst ;  she  should 
be  acquainted  with  the  gi-eat  benefits  of  the 
cholic  in  the  stomach,  and  all  the  thorough- 
bred insolence  of  fashion ;  maids  should  learn 
the  secret  of  nicely  distinguishing  every  com- 
petitor; they  should  be  able  to  know  the 
difference  between  a  pedant  and  a  scholar,  a 
citizen  and  a  prig,  a  'squire  and  his  horse,  a 
beau  and  his  monkey;  but  chiefly,  they  should 
be  taught  the  art  of  managing  their  smiles, 
from  the  contemptuous  simper  to  the  long 
lalx)rious  laugh. 

But  I  have  discontinued  the  project;  for 
what  would  signify  teaching  ladies  the  manner 
of  governing  or  choosing  husbands,  when  mar- 
riage is  at  present  so  much  out  of  fashion, 
that  a  lady  is  very  well  olf  who  can  get  any 
husband  at  all.  Celibacy  now  prevails  in  every 
rank  of  life ;  the  streets  are  crowded  with  old 
bachelors,  and  the  houses  with  ladies  who  have 
refused  good  offers,  and  are  never  likely  to 
receive  any  for  the  future. 


The  only  advice,  therefore,  I  could  give  the 
fair  sex,  as  things  stand  at  present,  is  to  get 
husbands  as  fast  as  they  can.  There  is  cer- 
tainly nothing  in  the  whole  creation,  not  even 
Babylon  in  ruins,  more  truly  deplorable,  than 
a  lady  in  the  virgin  bloom  of  sixty -three,  or  a 
battered  unmarried  beau,  who  squibs  about 
from  place  to  jilace,  showing  his  pig-tail  wig 
and  his  ears.  The  one  appears  to  my  imagina- 
tion in  the  form  of  a  double  night-cap  or  a 
roll  of  pomatum,  the  other  in  the  shape  of  an 
electuary  or  a  box  of  \n\ls. 

I  would  once  more,  therefore,  advise  the 
ladies  to  get  husbands.  I  would  desire  them 
not  to  discard  an  old  lover  without  very  suf- 
ficient reasons,  nor  treat  the  new  with  ill- 
natvire,  till  they  know  him  false ;  let  not  prudes 
allege  the  falseness  of  the  sex,  coquettes  the 
j)leasures  of  long  courtship,  or  parents  the 
necessary  preliminaries  of  penny  for  penny. 
I  have  reasons  that  would  silence  even  a  casuist 
in  this  particular.  In  the  first  place,  there- 
fore, I  divide  the  subject  into  fifteen  heads, 
and  then,  "  sic  argumentor," — but  not  to  give 
you  and  myself  the  spleen,  be  contented  at 
present  with  an  Indian  tale. 

In  a  winding  of  the  river  Amidar,  just  be- 
fore it  falls  into  the  Caspian  Sea,  there  lies  an 
island  unfrequented  by  the  inhabitants  of  the 
continent.  In  this  seclusion,  blessed  with  all 
that  wild  uncultivated  nature  could  bestow, 
lived  a  princess  and  her  two  daughters.  She 
had  been  wrecked  upon  the  coast  while  her 
children  as  yet  were  infants,  who,  of  conse- 
quence, though  gi'own  up,  were  entirely  unac- 
quainted with  man.  Yet,  unexperienced  as 
the  young  ladies  were  in  the  opposite  sex,  both 
early  discovered  symptoms,  the  one  of  prudexy, 
the  other  of  being  a  coquette.  The  eldest  was 
ever  learning  maxims  of  wisdom  and  discre- 
tion from  her  mamma,  while  the  youngest 
employed  all  her  hours  in  gazing  at  her  own 
face  in  a  neighbouring  fountain. 

Their  usual  amusement  in  this  solitude  was 
fishing ;  their  mother  had  taught  them  all  the 
secrets  of  the  art;  she  showed  them  which 
were  the  most  likely  places  to  throw  out  the 
line,  what  baits  were  most  proper  for  the 
various  seasons,  and  the  best  manner  to  draw 
up  the  finny  prey,  when  they  had  hooked  it. 
In  this  manner  they  spent  their  time,  easy  and 
innocent,  till  one  day  the  princess,  being  indis- 
2)Osed,  desired  them  to  go  and  catch  her  a 
sturgeon  or  a  shark  for  supper,  which  she 
fancied  might  sit  easy  on  her  stomach.  The 
daughters  obeyed,  and  clapping  on  a  gold  fish, 
the  usual  bait  on  these  occasions,  went  and  sat 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


16/ 


upon  one  of  the  rocks,  letting  the  gilded  hook 
glide  down  with  the  stream. 

On  the  opposite  shore,  further  down,  at  the 
mouth  of  the  river,  lived  a  diver  for  pearls,  a 
youth,  who,  by  long  iiabit  in  his  trade,  was 
almost  grown  amphibious  ;  so  that  he  could 
remain  whole  hours  at  the  bottom  of  the  water, 
without  ever  fetching  breath.  He  happened 
to  be  at  that  very  instant  diving,  when  the 
ladies  were  fishing  with  the  gilded  hook. 
Seeing  therefore  the  bait,  which  to  him  had 
the  apjsearance  of  real  gold,  he  was  resolved 
to  seize  the  prize,  but  both  hands  being  already 
tilled  with  pearl  oysters,  he  found  himself 
obliged  to  snap  at  it  with  his  mouth  :  the  con- 
sequence is  easily  imagined  ;  the  hook,  before 
uuperceived,  was  instantly  f;istened  in  his  jaw; 
nor  could  he,  with  all  his  efforts  or  his  flounder- 
ing, get  free. 

"  Sister,"  cries  the  youngest  princess,  "  I 
have  certainly  caught  a  monstrous  fish;  I 
never  perceived  anything  struggle  so  at  the 
end  of  ray  line  before  ;  come,  and  help  me  to 
draw  it  in."  They  both  now,  therefore,  as- 
sisted in  fishing  up  the  diver  on  shore ;  but 
nothing  could  equal  their  surprise  upon  seeing 
him.  "  Bless  my  eyes,"  cries  the  prude,  "  what 
have  we  got  here  ;  this  is  a  very  odd  fish  to  be 
sure ;  I  never  saw  anything  in  my  life  look  so 
queer  ;  what  eyes  !  what  terrible  claws !  what 
a  monstrous  snout !  I  have  read  of  this  mon- 
ster somewhere  before,  it  certainly  must  be  a 
tanglang,  that  eats  women ;  let  us  throw  it  back 
into  the  sea  where  we  found  it." 

The  diver  in  the  meantime  stood  upon  the 
beach,  at  the  end  of  the  line,  with  the  hook  in 
his  mouth,  using  every  art  that  he  thought 
could  best  excite  pity,  and  particularly  looking 
extremely  tender,  which  is  usual  in  such  cir- 
cumstances. The  coquette,  therefore,  in  some 
measure  infiuenced  by  the  innocence  of  his 
looks,  ventured  to  contradict  her  companion. 
"  Upon  my  word,  sister,"  says  she,  "  I  see 
nothing  in  the  animal  so  very  ten-ible  as  you 
are  pleased  to  apprehend ;  I  think  it  may  serve 
well  enough  for  a  change.  Always  sharks,  and 
sturgeons,  and  lobsters,  and  crawfish  make  me 
quite  sick.  I  fancy  a  slice  of  this  nicely  gril- 
laded,  and  dressed  up  with  shrimp-sauce,  would 
be  very  pretty  eating.  I  fancy  mamma  would 
like  a  bit  with  pickles  above  all  things  in  the 
world :  and  if  it  should  not  sit  easy  on  her 
stomach,  it  will  be  time  enough  to  discontinue 
it  when  found  disagreeable,  you  know."  — 
"  Horrid,"  cries  the  prude,  "  would  the  girl  be 
poisoned.  I  tell  you  it  is  a  tanglang;  I  have 
read  of  it  in  twenty  places.     It  is  everywhere 


described  as  the  most  pernicious  animal  that 
ever  infested  the  ocean.  I  am  certain  it  is  the 
most  insidious  ravenous  creature  in  the  world ; 
and  is  certain  destruction  if  taken  internally." 
The  youngest  sister  was  now  therefore  obliged 
to  submit :  both  assisted  in  drawing  the  hook 
with  some  violence  from  the  diver's  jaw ;  and 
he,  finding  himself  at  liberty,  bent  his  breast 
against  the  broad  wave,  and  disappeared  in  an 
instant. 

Just  at  this  juncture  the  mother  came  down 
to  the  beach,  to  know  the  cause  of  her  daugh- 
ter' delay  ;  they  told  her  every  circumstance, 
describing  the  monster  they  had  caught.  The 
old  lady  was  one  of  the  most  discreet  women 
in  the  woi'ld ;  she  was  called  the  black-eyed 
princess,  from  two  black  eyes  she  had  received 
in  her  youth,  being  a  little  addicted  to  boxing 
in  her  liquor.  "Alas,  my  children!"  cries 
she,  "  what  have  you  done?  the  fish  you  caught 
was  a  man-fish ;  one  of  the  most  tame  domestic 
animals  in  the  world.  We  could  have  let  him 
run  and  play  about  the  garden,  and  he  would 
have  been  twenty  times  more  entertaining 
than  our  squirrel  or  monkey." — "  If  that  be 
all,"  says  the  young  coquette,  "  we  will  fish  for 
him  again.  If  that  be  all,  I  will  hold  three 
tooth-picks  to  one  pound  of  snuff,  I  catch  him 
whenever  I  please."  Accoi'dingly  they  threw 
in  their  line  once  more,  but,  with  all  their 
gilding,  and  paddling,  and  assiduity,  they  could 
never  after  catch  the  diver.  In  this  state  of 
solitude  and  disappointment  they  continued 
for  many  years,  still  fishing,  but  without 
success ;  till  at  last,  the  genius  of  the  place,  in 
pity  of  their  distress,  changed  the  prude  into 
a  shrimp,  and  the  coquette  into  an  oyster. 
Adieu. 


THE   VICARS   HOME. 

(FROM   "THE  VICAR  OK   WAKEFIELD.") 

When  the  morning  arrived  on  which  we 
wei'e  to  entertain  our  young  landlord,  it  may 
be  easily  supposed  what  provisions  were  ex- 
hausted to  make  an  appearance.  It  may  be 
also  conjectured  that  my  wife  and  daughters 
expanded  theii*  gayest  plumage  on  this  occa- 
sion. Mr.  Thornhill  came  with  a  couple  of 
friends,  his  chaplain  and  feeder.  The  servants, 
who  were  numerous,  he  politely  ordered  to  the 
next  alehouse ;  but  my  wife,  in  the  triumjih 
of  her  heart,  insisted  on  entertaining  them  all: 
for  which,  by  the  bye,  our  family  was  pinclied 
for  tlu^-ee  weeks  after.     As  Mr.  Burchell  had 


168 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


hinted  to  us  the  day  before  that  he  was 
making  some  proposals  of  marriage  to  Miss 
Wilmot,  my  son  George's  former  mistress,  this 
a  good  deal  damped  the  heartiness  of  his 
reception :  but  accident  in  some  measure  re- 
lieved our  embarrassment,  for  one  of  the  com- 
pany happening  to  mention  her  name,  Mr. 
Thornhill  observed  with  an  oath  that  he  never 
knew  anything  more  absurd  than  calling  such 
a  fright  a  beauty:  "For,  strike  me  ugly," 
continued  he,  "  if  I  should  not  find  as  much 
pleasure  in  choosing  my  mistress  by  the  infor- 
mation of  a  lamp  under  the  clock  of  St.  Dun- 
stan's."  At  this  he  laughed,  and  so  did  we : 
the  jests  of  the  rich  are  ever  successful. 
Olivia,  too,  could  not  avoid  whispering,  loud 
enough  to  be  heard,  that  he  had  an  infinite 
fund  of  humour. 

After  dinner,  I  began  with  my  usual  toast, 
the  Church;  for  this  I  was  thanked  by  the 
chaplain,  as  he  said  the  church  was  the  only 
mistress  of  his  afi'ections.  "  Come,  tell  us 
honestly,  Frank,"  said  the  squire,  with  his 
usual  archness,  "  suppose  the  church,  your  pre- 
sent mistress,  dressed  in  lawn  sleeves  on  one 
hand,  and  Miss  Sophia,  with  no  lawn  about 
her  on  the  other,  which  would  you  be  for?" — 
"For  both,  to  be  sure,"  cried  the  chaplain. 
"  Right,  Frank,"  cried  the  squire ;  "  for  may 
this  glass  suffocate  me,  but  a  fine  girl  is  worth 
all  the  priestcraft  in  the  creation ;  for  what 
are  tithes  and  tricks  but  an  imposition,  all  a 
confounded  imposture?  and  I  can  prove  it." — 
"I  wish  you  would,"  cried  my  son  Moses; 
"  and  I  think,"  continued  he,  "  that  I  should 
be  able  to  answer  you." — "Very  well,  sir," 
cried  the  squire,  who  immediately  smoked 
him,  and  winked  on  the  rest  of  the  company 
to  prepare  us  for  the  sport :  "  if  you  are  for  a 
cool  argument  upon  the  subject,  I  am  ready  to 
accept  the  challenge.  And  first,  whether  are 
you  for  managing  it  analogically  or  dialogic- 
ally?" — "I  am  for  managing  it  rationally," 
cried  Moses,  quite  happy  at  being  permitted 
to  dispute.  "  Good  again,"  cried  the  squire : 
"and,  firstly,  of  the  first,  I  hope  you'll  not 
deny  that  whatever  is,  is :  if  you  don't  grant 
me  tliat  I  can  go  no  further." — "  Why,"  re- 
turned Moses,  "  I  think  I  may  grant  that,  and 
make  the  best  of  it." — "  I  hope,  too,"  returned 
the  other,  "  you  will  gi-ant  that  a  part  is  less 
than  the  whole." — "  I  grant  that  too,"  cried 
Moses,  "  it  is  but  just  and  reasonable." — "  I 
hope,"  cried  the  squire,  "you  will  not  deny 
that  the  three  angles  of  a  triangle  are  equal  to 
two  right  ones."^"  Nothing  can  be  plainer," 
returned  t'other,  and  looked  round  him  with 


his  usual  importance.  "  Very  well,"  cried  the 
squire,  speaking  very  quick ;  "  the  premises 
being  thus  settled,  I  proceed  to  observe  that 
the  concatenation  of  .self-existences,  proceeding 
in  a  reciprocal  duplicate  ratio,  naturally  pro- 
duce a  problematical  dialogism,  which,  in  some 
measure,  proves  that  the  essence  of  spiritu- 
ality may  be  referred  to  the  second  predicable." 
— "Hold,  hold!"  cried  the  other,  "I  deny  that. 
Do  you  think  I  can  thus  tamely  submit  to 
such  heterodox  doctrines?"—"  What,"  replied 
the  squire,  as  if  in  a  passion,  "  not  submit ! 
Answer  me  one  plain  question.  Do  you  think 
Aristotle  right  when  he  says  that  relatives 
are  related?"  —  "Undoubtedly,"  replied  the 
other. — "  If  so,  then,"  cried  the  squire,  "answer 
me  directly  to  what  I  propose :  Whether  do 
you  judge  the  analytical  investigation  of  the 
first  part  of  my  enthymem  deficient  secundum 
quoad,  or  quoad  minus?  and  give  me  your 
reasons,  I  say,  directly." — "  I  protest,"  cried 
Moses,  "  I  don't  rightly  comprehend  the  force 
of  your  reasoning ;  but  if  it  be  reduced  to  one 
single  proposition,  I  fancy  it  may  then  have 
an  answer." — "O,  sir," cried  the  squire,  "I  am 
your  most  humble  servant ;  I  find  you  want 
me  to  furnish  you  with  argument  and  intel- 
lects too.  No,  sii- !  there,  I  protest,  you  are 
too  hard  for  me."  This  eff"ectually  raised  the 
laugh  against  poor  Moses,  who  sat  the  only 
dismal  figure  in  a  group  of  merry  faces ;  nor 
did  he  ofl"er  a  single  syllable  more  during  the 
whole  entertainment. 

But  though  all  this  gave  me  no  pleasure,  it 
had  a  very  different  effect  upon  Olivia,  who 
mistook  it  for  humour,  though  but  a  mere  act 
of  the  memory.  She  thought  him,  therefore, 
a  very  fine  gentleman :  and  s\ich  as  consider 
what  powerful  ingredients  a  good  figure,  fine 
clothes,  and  fortune  are  in  that  character  will 
easily  forgive  hei-.  Mr.  Thornhill,  notwith- 
standing his  real  ignorance,  talked  with  ease, 
and  could  expatiate  upon  the  common  topics  of 
conversation  with  fluency.  It  is  not  surpris- 
ing, then,  that  such  talents  should  win  the  affec- 
tions of  a  girl,  who,  by  education,  was  taught 
to  value  an  appearance  in  herself,  and,  conse- 
quently, to  set  a  value  upon  it  in  another. 

Upon  his  departure  we  again  enterefl  into 
a  debate  upon  the  merits  of  our  young  land- 
lord. As  he  directed  his  looks  and  conversa- 
tion to  Olivia,  it  was  no  longer  doubted  but 
that  she  was  the  object  that  induced  him  to 
be  our  visitor.  Nor  did  she  seem  to  be  much 
displeased  at  the  innocent  raillery  of  her 
brother  and  sister  upon  this  occasion.  Even 
Deborah  herself  seemed  to  .share  the  glory  of 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


169 


the  day,  and  exulted  in  her  daughter's  victory 
as  if  it  were  her  own.  "  And  now,  my  dear," 
cried  she  to  me,  "  I'll  fairly  own  that  it  wa.s  I 
that  instructed  my  girls  to  encourage  our 
landlortl's  addresses.  I  had  always  some  am-  | 
bition,  and  you  now  see  that  I  was  right ;  for 
who  knows  how  this  may  end?" — "Ay,  who 
knows  that,  indeed!"  answered  I,  with  a 
groan:  "for  my  part,  I  don't  much  like  it: 
and  I  could  have  been  better  pleased  with  one 
that  was  poor  and  honest  than  this  fine  gentle- 
man with  his  fortune  and  infidelity;  for, 
depend  on't,  if  he  be  what  I  sus])ect  him,  no 
freethinker  shall  ever  have  a  child  of  mine." 

"Sure,  father,"  cried  Moses,  "you  are  too 
severe  in  this ;  for  Heaven  will  never  arraign 
him  for  what  he  thinks,  but  for  what  he  does. 
Every  man  has  a  thousand  vicious  thoughts, 
which  arise  without  his  power  to  suppress. 
Thinking  freely  of  religion  may  be  involuntary 
with  this  gentleman;  so  that  allowing  his 
sentiments  to  be  wrong,  yet,  as  he  is  j^^rely 
passive  in  his  assent,  he  is  no  more  to  be 
blamed  for  his  eiTors  tlian  the  governor  of  a 
city  without  walls  for  the  shelter  he  is  obliged 
to  afford  an  invading  enemy," 

"  True,  my  son,"  cried  I :  "  but  if  the  gover- 
nor invites  the  enemy  there  he  is  justly  cul- 
pable ;  and  such  is  always  the  case  with  those 
who  embrace  error.  The  vice  does  not  lie  in 
assenting  to  the  proofs  they  see,  but  in  being 
blind  to  many  of  the  proofs  that  offer.  So 
that,  though  our  erroneous  opinions  be  in- 
voluntary when  formed,  yet,  as  we  have  been 
wilfully  corrupt,  or  very  negligent,  in  forming 
them,  we  deserve  punishment  for  our  vice,  or 
contempt  for  o\ir  folly." 

My  wife  now  kejjt  ujj  the  conversation, 
though  not  the  argument;  she  observed  that 
several  very  jjrudent  men  of  our  acquaintance 
were  freethinkers,  and  made  very  good  hus- 
bands ;  and  she  knew  some  sensible  girls  that 
had  had  skill  enough  to  make  converts  of  their 
spouses :  "  And  who  knows,  my  dear,"  con- 
tinued she,  "  what  Olivia  may  be  able  to  do  ? 
The  girl  has  a  great  deal  to  say  upon  every 
subject,  and,  to  my  knowledge,  is  very  well 
skilled  in  controversy." 

"  Why,  my  dear,  what  controversy  can  she 
have  read?"  cried  I.  "It  does  not  occur  to 
me  that  I  ever  put  such  books  into  her  hands; 
you  certainly  overrate  her  merit." — "  Indeed, 
papa,"  replied  Olivia,  "  she  does  not ;  I  have 
read  a  great  deal  of  controversy.  I  liave  read 
the  disputes  between  Thwackum  and  Scpiare ; 
the  controversy  between  Robinson  Crusoe  and 
Friday  the  savage ;  and  I  am  now  employed 


in  reading  the  controversy  in  Religious  Court- 
ship."— "  Very  well,"  cried  I,  "  that's  a  good 
girl;  I  find  you  are  perfectly  (jualified  for 
making  con  veils,  and  so  go  help  your  mother 
to  make  the  gooseberry-jiie." 


MOSES   AT   THE   FAIR. 

(VROJA    "THE    VICAR   ilV   WAKEKIELD.") 

When  we  were  returned  home,  the  night 
was  dedicated  to  schemes  of  future  conquest. 
Deborah  exerted  much  sagacity  in  conjectur- 
ing which  of  the  two  girls  was  likely  to  have 
the  best  place,  and  most  opportunities  of  see- 
ing good  company.  The  only  obsUicle  to  our 
preferment  was  in  obtaining  the  squire's  re- 
commendation ;  but  he  had  already  shown  us 
too  many  instances  of  his  friendship  to  doubt 
of  it  now.  Even  in  bed  my  wife  kept  up  the 
usual  theme :  "  Well,  faith,  my  dear  Charles, 
between  ourselves  I  think  we  have  made  an 
excellent  day's  work  of  it."- — "  Pretty  well," 
cried  I,  not  knowing  what  to  say. — "  What, 
only  pretty  well !"  returned  she ;  "I  think  it  is 
very  well.  Suppose  the  girls  should  come  to 
make  acquaintances  of  taste  in  town !  This 
I  am  assured  of,  that  London  is  the  only  place 
in  the  world  for  all  manner  of  husbands. 
Besides,  my  dear,  sti'anger  things  happen 
every  day,  and  as  ladies  of  quality  are  so  tiiken 
with  my  daughters,  what  will  not  men  of 
quality  be !  Entre  nous,  I  protest  I  like  my 
Lady  Blarney  vastly — so  very  obliging.  How- 
ever, Miss  Carolina  Wilelmina  Amelia  Skeggs 
has  my  warm  heart.  But  yet,  when  they 
came  to  talk  of  places  in  town,  you  saw  at 
once  how  I  nailed  them.  Tell  me,  my  dear, 
don't  you  think  I  did  for  my  children  there  ?" 
— "  Ay,"  returned  I,  not  knowing  well  what 
to  think  of  the  matter :  "  heaven  grant  they 
may  be  both  the  better  for  it  this  day  three 
months  !"  This  was  one  of  those  observations 
I  usually  made  to  impress  my  wife  with  an 
opinion  of  my  sagacity :  for  if  the  girls  suc- 
ceeded, then  it  was  a  pious  wish  fulfilled ;  but 
if  anything  unfortunate  ensued,  then  it  might 
be  looked  \ipon  as  a  i3ro])hecy.  All  this  con- 
versation, however,  was  only  prejmratory  to 
another  scheme,  and  indeed  I  dreaded  as  much. 
This  was  nothing  less  than  that,  as  we  were 
now  to  hold  up  our  heads  a  little  higher  in 
the  world,  it  would  be  proper  to  sell  the  colt, 
which  was  grown  old,  at  a  neighbouring 
fair,  and  buy  us  a  horse  that  would  carry 


170 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


single  or  double  upon  an  occasion,  and  make 
a  in-etty  appearance  at  church  or  upon  a  visit. 
This  at  first  I  opposed  stoutly ;  but  it  was  as 
stoutly  defended.  However,  as  I  weakened, 
my  antagonist  gained  strength,  till  at  last  it 
was  resolved  to  part  with  him. 

As  the  fair  happened  on  the  following  day, 
I  had  intentions  of  going  myself;  but  my 
wife  persuaded  me  that  I  had  got  a  cold,  and 
nothing  covxld  prevail  upon  her  to  permit  me 
from  home.  "No,  my  dear,"  said  she,  "our 
son  Moses  is  a  discreet  boy,  and  can  buy  and 
sell  to  very  good  advantage;  you  know  all  our 
great  bargains  aie  of  his  purchasing.  He 
always  stands  out  and  higgles,  and  actually 
tires  them  till  he  gets  a  bargain." 

As  I  had  some  opinion  of  my  son's  prudence 
I  was  willing  enough  to  intrust  him  with  this 
commission;  and  the  next  morning  I  per- 
ceived his  sisters  mighty  busy  in  fitting  out 
Moses  for  the  fair ;  trimming  his  hair,  brush- 
ing his  buckles,  and  cocking  his  hat  with  pins. 
The  business  of  the  toilet  being  over,  we  had 
at  last  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  him  mounted 
upon  the  colt,  with  a  deal-box  before  him  to 
bring  home  gi-oceiies  in.  He  had  on  a  coat 
made  of  that  cloth  called  thunder  and  light- 
ning, which,  though  grown  too  short,  was 
much  too  good  to  be  thrown  away.  His 
waistcoat  was  of  gosling  green,  and  his  sisters 
had  tied  his  hair  with  a  broad  black  riband. 
We  all  followed  him  several  paces  from  the 
door,  bawling  after  him,  "  Good  luck  !  good 
luck ! "  till  we  could  see  him  no  longer. 

He  was  scarcely  gone  when  Mr.  Thornhill's 
butler  came  to  congratulate  us  upon  our  good 
fortune,  saying  that  he  overheard  his  young 
master  mention  om-  names  with  gi-eat  com- 
mendation. 

Good  fortune  seemed  resolved  not  to  come 
alone.  Another  footman  from  the  same  family 
followed,  with  a  card  for  my  daughters  impoi-t- 
ing  that  the  two  ladies  had  received  such 
pleasing  accounts  from  Mr.  Thornhill  of  us  all, 
that  after  a  few  previous  inquiries  they  hoped 
to  be  perfectly  satisfied.  "  Ay,"  cried  my 
wife,  "  I  now  see  it  is  no  easy  matter  to  get 
into  the  families  of  the  great;  but  when  one 
once  gets  in,  then,  as  Moses  says,  one  may  go 
to  .sleep."  To  this  piece  of  humour,  for  she 
intended  it  for  wit,  my  daughters  }i.ssented 
with  a  loud  laugh  of  pleiusure.  In  .short,  such 
was  her  satisfaction  at  this  message  that  she 
actually  put  her  hand  in  her  ])Ocket  and  gave 
the  messenger  sevenpence-half penny. 

This  was  to  be  our  visiting  day.  The  next 
that  came  was  Mr.  IJm-chell,  who  had  been  at 


the  fair.  He  brought  my  little  ones  a  penny- 
worth of  gingerbread  each,  which  my  wife 
undertook  to  keep  for  them  and  give  them  by 
lettera  at  a  time.  He  brought  my  daughters 
also  a  couple  of  boxes,  in  which  they  might 
keep  wafers,  snuflF,  patches,  or  even  money, 
when  they  got  it.  My  wife  was  usually  fond 
of  a  weasel-skin  purse,  as  being  the  most  lucky; 
but  this  by  the  bye.  We  had  still  a  regard 
for  Mr.  Burchell,  though  his  late  rude  be- 
ha\aour  was  in  some  measure  displeasing ;  nor 
could  we  now  avoid  communicating  our  happi- 
ness to  him  and  asking  his  advice  :  although 
we  seldom  followed  advice  we  were  all  ready 
enough  to  ask  it.  When  he  read  the  note 
from  the  two  ladies  he  shook  his  head,  and 
observed  that  an  affair  of  this  soil  demanded 
the  utmost  circumspection.  This  air  of  difii- 
dence  highly  displeased  my  wife.  "  I  never 
doubted,  sir,"  cried  she,  "  your  readiness  to  be 
against  my  daughters  and  me.  You  have  more 
circumspection  than  is  wanted.  However,  I 
fancy  when  we  come  to  ask  advice  we  shall 
apply  to  persons  who  seem  to  have  made  use 
of  it  themselves." — "  Whatever  my  own  con- 
duct may  have  been,  madam,"  rei3lied  he,  "  is 
not  the  present  question ;  though  as  I  have 
made  no  use  of  advice  myself,  I  should  in  con- 
science give  it  to  those  that  will."  As  I  was 
apprehensive  this  answer  might  draw  on  a 
repartee,  making  up  by  abuse  what  it  wanted 
in  wit,  I  changed  the  subject  by  seeming  to 
wonder  what  could  keep  our  son  so  long  at  the 
fair,  as  it  was  now  almost  nightfall.  "  Never 
mind  our  son,"  cried  my  wife,  "  depend  upon 
it  he  knows  what  he  is  about;  I'll  waiTant 
we'll  never  see  him  sell  his  hen  on  a  rainy 
day.  I  have  seen  him  buy  such  bargains  as 
would  amaze  one.  I'll  tell  you  a  good  story 
about  that,  that  will  make  you  split  your  sides 
with  laughing.  But  as  I  live,  yonder  comes 
Moses,without  a  horse  and  the  box  at  his  back." 
As  she  spoke,  Moses  came  slowly  on  foot, 
and  sweating  under  the  deal-box,  which  he 
had  strapped  round  his  shoulders  like  a  jsedlar. 
"  Welcome !  welcome,  Moses !  well,  my  boy, 
what  have  you  brought  us  from  the  fair?" — 
"  I  have  brought  you  myself,"  cried  Moses, 
with  a  sly  look,  and  resting  the  box  on  the 
dresser.  "  Ay,  Moses,"  cried  my  wife,  "  that 
we  know,  but  where  is  the  horse?" — "  I  have 
sold  him,"  cried  Moses,  "for  three  pounds  five 
shillings  and  two])ence." — "Well  done,  my 
good  boy,"  returned  she,  "  I  knew  you  would 
touch  them  off.  Between  ourselves,  three 
pounds  five  .shillings  and  twopence  is  no  bad 
day's  work.     Come,  let  us  have  it  then." — "I 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


171 


have  brouglit  Ijack  no  mouey,"  cried  Moses 
again;  "I  have  laid  it  all  out  in  a  bargain,  and 
here  it  is,"  pulling  out  a  bundle  from  his 
bre;ist ;  "  here  they  are ;  a  gross  of  green  spec- 
tacles, with  silver  rims  and  shagreen  cases."- 
"  A  gross  of  gi'een  sj^ectacles  ! "  repeateil  my 
wife  in  a  faint  voice.  "And  you  have  parted 
with  the  colt,  and  brought  us  back  nothing 
but  a  gross  of  green  paltry  spectacles ! " — 
"Dear  mother,"  cried  the  boy,  "why  won't 
you  listen  to  reason  ?  I  had  them  a  dead  bar- 
gain or  I  should  not  have  bought  them.  The 
silver  rims  alone  will  sell  for  double  the 
money." — "A  fig  for  the  silver  i-ims!"  cried 
my  wife  in  a  passion :  "I  dare  swear  they 
won't  sell  for  above  half  the  mouey  at  the  rate 
of  broken  silvei",  five  shillings  an  ounce." — 
"  You  need  be  under  no  uneasiness,"  cried  I, 
"about  selling  the  rims,  for  they  are  not  worth 
sixpence,  for  I  perceive  they  are  only  copper 
varnished  over," — "What,"  cried  my  wife, 
"not  silver!  the  rims  not  silver!" — "No," 
cried  I,  "  no  more  silver  than  your  saucepan." 
— "And  so,"  returned  she,  "we  have  parted 
with  the  colt,  and  have  only  got  a  gross  of 
gi'eeu  spectacles,  with  copper  rims  and  shagreen 
cases !  A  murrain  take  such  trumpery.  The 
blockhead  has  been  imposed  upon,  and  should 
have  known  his  company  better ! " — "Thei-e, 
my  dear,"  cried  I,  "  you  are  wrong ;  he  should 
not  have  known  them  at  all." — "  Marry,  hang 
the  idiot!"  returned  she,  "to  bring  me  such 
stuff;  if  I  had  them  I  would  throw  them  in 
the  fire." — "  There  again  you  are  wrong,  my 
dear,"  cried  I;  "for  though  they  be  copper, 
we  will  keep  them  by  us,  as  cojjper  spectacles, 
you  know,  are  better  than  nothing." 

By  this  time  the  unfortunate  Moses  was 
undeceived.  He  now  saw  that  he  had  indeed 
been  imposed  upon  by  a  prowling  sharper, 
who,  observing  his  figure,  had  marked  him 
for  an  easy  prey.  I  therefore  asked  him  the 
circumstances  of  his  deception.  He  sold  the 
horse,  it  seems,  and  walked  the  fair  in  search 
of  another.  A  revei-end-lookiug  man  brought 
him  to  a  tent,  under  pretence  of  having  one 
to  sell.  "  Here,"  continued  Moses,  "  we  met 
another  man,  very  well  dressed,  who  desired 
to  borrow  twenty  pounds  upon  these,  saying 
that  he  wanted  money,  and  would  dispose  of 
them  for  a  third  of  their  value.  The  first  gen- 
tleman, who  pretended  to  be  my  friend,  whis- 
pered me  to  buy  them,  and  cautioned  me  not 
to  let  so  good  an  oifer  pass.  I  sent  for  jMi\ 
Flamborough,  and  they  talked  him  up  as  finely 
as  they  did  me ;  and  so  at  last  we  were  per- 
suaded to  buy  the  two  gross  between  us." 


A   CITY   NIGHT   PIECE. 

(KROM    "THK   BEE.") 

lUe  dolet  vere,  (^ui  sine  teste  dolet. 

The  clock  just  struck  two,  the  expiring  taper 
rises  and  sinks  in  the  socket,  the  watchman 
forgets  the  hour  in  slumber,  the  laborious  and 
the  happy  are  at  rest,  and  nothing  wakes  but 
meditation,  guilt,  revelry,  and  despair.  The 
drunkard  once  more  fills  the  destroying  bowl, 
the  robber  walks  his  midnight  round,  and  the 
suicide  lifts  hia  guilty  arm  against  his  own 
sacred  person. 

Let  me  no  longer  waste  the  night  over  the 
page  of  antiquity,  or  the  sallies  of  contem- 
porary genius,  but  pursue  the  solitary  walk, 
where  vanity,  ever  changing,  but  a  few  hours 
past  walked  before  me — where  she  kept  up  the 
pageant,  and  now,  like  a  froward  child,  seema 
hushed  with  her  own  importunities. 

What  a  gloom  hangs  all  around  !  The  dying 
lamp  feebly  emits  a  yellow  gleam ;  no  sound 
is  heard  but  of  the  chiming  clock,  or  the  dis- 
tant watch-dog.  All  the  bustle  of  human 
pride  is  forgotten:  an  hour  like  this  may  well 
display  the  emptiness  of  human  vanity. 

There  will  come  a  time  when  this  temporary 
solitude  may  be  made  continual,  and  the  city 
itself,  like  its  inhabitants,  fade  away,  and  leave 
a  desert  in  its  room. 

What  cities,  as  gi-eat  as  this,  have  once  tri- 
umphed in  existence,  had  their  victories  as 
great,  joy  as  just  and  as  unbounded;  and,  with 
short-sighted  presumption,  promised  them- 
selves immortality ! — Posterity  can  hardly  trace 
the  situation  of  some :  the  soiTOwf ul  traveller 
wanders  over  the  awful  ruins  of  others ;  and 
as  he  beholds,  he  learns  wisdom,  and  feels  the 
transcience  of  every  sulilunary  possession. 

"  Here,"  he  cries,  "  .stood  their  citadel,  now 
grown  over  with  weeds;  there  their  senate- 
house,  but  now  the  haunt  of  every  noxious 
reptile ;  temples  and  theatres  stood  here,  now 
only  an  undistinguished  heap  of  niin.  They 
are  fallen,  for  luxury  and  avarice  firet  made 
them  feeble.  The  rewards  of  the  state  were  con- 
ferred on  amusing,  and  not  on  useful  membere 
of  society.  Their  riches  and  opulence  invited 
the  invaders,  who,  though  at  first  repulsed, 
retui-ned  again,  conquered  by  perseverance, 
and  at  last  swept  the  defendants  into  undis- 
tinguished destruction." 

How  few  appear  in  those  sti-eets  which  but 
some  few  houi-s  ago  wei-e  crowded  !  and  those 
who  appear,  now  no  longer  wear  their  daily 


172 


HUGH   KELLY. 


mask,  nor  attempt  to  hide  their  lewdness  or 
tlieir  misery. 

But  who  are  those  who  make  the  streets 
their  couch,  and  find  a  short  repose  from 
wretchedness  at  the  doore  of  the  opulent? 
These  are  strangers,  wanderers,  and  orphans, 
whose  circumstances  are  too  humble  to  expect 
redress,  and  whose  distresses  are  too  great  even 
for  pity.  Their  wretchedness  excites  rather  hor- 
ror than  pity.  Some  are  without  the  covering 
even  of  rags,  and  others  emaciated  with  disease; 
the  world  has  disclaimed  them ;  society  turns  its 
back  upon  their  distress,  and  has  given  them 
up  to  nakedness  and  hunger.  These  poor 
shivering  females  have  once  seen  happier  days, 
and  been  flattered  into  beauty.  They  have 
been  pi'ostituted  to  the  gay  luxurious  villain, 
and  are  now  turned  out  to  meet  the  severity 
of  winter.  Perhaps,  now  lying  at  the  dooi-s 
of  their  betrayers,  they  sue  to  wretches  whose 
hearts  are  insensible,  or  debauchees  who  may 
curse,  but  will  not  relieve  them. 

Why,  why  was  I  born  a  man,  and  yet  see 
the  sufferings  of  wretches  I  cannot  relieve ! 
Poor  houseless  creatures !  the  world  will  give 
you  reproaches,  but  will  not  give  you  relief. 
The  slightest  misfortunes  of  the  great,  the 
most  imaginary  uneasiness  of  the  rich,  ai'e 


aggravated  with  all  the  power  of  eloquence, 
and  held  up  to  engage  our  attention  and  .sym- 
pathetic sorrow.  The  poor  weep  unheeded, 
persecuted  by  every  subordinate  species  of 
tyranny;  and  every  law  which  gives  others 
security  becomes  an  enemy  to  them. 

Why  was  this  heart  of  mine  formed  with  so 
much  sensibility?  or  why  was  not  my  fortime 
adapted  to  its  impulse?  Tenderness,  without 
a  capacity  of  relieving,  only  makes  the  man 
who  feels  it  more  wretched  than  the  object 
which  sues  for  assistance. 

But  let  me  turn  from  a  scene  of  such  dis- 
tress to  the  sanctified  hypocrite,  who  has  been 
"  talking  of  virtue  till  the  time  of  bed,"  and 
now  steals  out,  to  give  a  loose  to  his  vices 
under  the  protection  of  midnight — vices  more 
atrocious  because  he  attempts  to  conceal  them. 
See  how  he  pants  down  the  dark  alley,  and, 
with  hastening  steps,  fears  an  acquaintance  in 
every  face.  He  has  passed  the  whole  day  in 
company  he  hates,  and  now  goes  to  prolong 
the  night  among  company  that  as  heartily 
hate  him.  May  his  vices  be  detected !  may 
the  morning  rise  ui)on  his  shame  !  Yet  I  wish 
to  no  purpose  :  viUany,  when  detected,  never 
gives  up,  but  boldly  adds  impudence  to  im- 
posture. 


HUGH     KELLY. 


Born  1739  —  Died  1777. 


[When  a  new  series  of  "  The  Pursuit  of  Know- 
ledge under  Difficulties"  comes  to  be  written, 
the  name  of  Hugh  Kelly  ought  not  to  be 
omitted  from  it.  He  is  as  good  an  instance 
as  any  that  can  be  found  of  a  person  raising 
himself  by  his  own  efforts  fi'om  a  position  of 
ignorance  and  poverty  to  one  of  education  and 
comj)arative  affluence,  all  the  while  living  in 
the  midst  of  temptations  which  wreck  so 
many  of  those  who  meet  them.  His  birth 
took  place  in  the  year  1739,  either  in  Killar- 
ney  or  Dublin,  the  latter  being  the  most  likely 
place,  as  very  soon  after  we  find  his  father, 
who  had  fallen  from  a  better  estate,  in  the 
position  of  a  tavern-keeper  in  that  city.  Here 
aa  the  boy  grew  up  he  was  constantly  meeting 
with  theatrical  folk  who  fi-eiiuented  the  house, 
and  from  them  obtained  a  taste  for  the  stage. 
What  his  ta.stes  might  be,  however,  was  of 
little  moment  to  his  father,  who  took  him 
early  from  school  and  bound  him  apprentice 


to  a  stay-maker,  an  apprenticeship  which  he 
faithfully  fulfilled,  though  he  still  continued 
to  cultivate  and  extend  his  acquaintance  with 
the  players. 

Shortly  after  the  completion  of  his  service 
the  flatteries  of  the  playei's,  for  whom  he  had 
written  one  or  two  things,  induced  him  to 
leave  Dublin  and  venture  upon  the  troubled 
sea  of  London  life.  Arrived  in  London  he 
very  wisely  continued  to  work  at  his  trade, 
but  this  beginning  to  fail  him,  he  engaged 
himself  as  a  copying-clerk  to  an  attorney. 
While  working  at  the  lawyer's  desk  he  wrote 
occasional  articles  and  paragraphs  for  the 
newspapers.  This  enabled  him  after  a  time 
to  give  up  legal  copying  and  to  engage  as  a 
paragraph  writer  on  one  of  the  daily  papers, 
in  which  ])osition  he  soon  gained  the  confi- 
dence and  esteem  of  his  employer.  Gradually, 
as  his  style  improved,  he  took  to  higher  work, 
and   obtained    engagements   on    The   Larlies' 


HUGH   KELLY. 


173 


Museum  and  The  Court  Magazine,  besides 
writing  several  pamphlets  for  the  publisher 
Pottinger.  About  this  time,  being  only  two- 
and-twenty,  he  married,  "  merely  for  love," 
and  found  that  he  had  done  wisely.  Spurred 
on  by  his  new  responsibilities  he  continued 
to  extend  his  labours,  and  while  he  read  and 
studied  Inisily  to  improve  himself,  he  wrote  a 
series  of  essays  for  Owen's  Weekli/  Chronicle, 
afterwards  reprintetl  as  The  Babbler.  He  also 
produced  about  this  time,  Louisa  Milcbnay,  or 
the  History  of  a  Magdalen,  a  novel  which  had 
a  very  considerable  success,  and  is  "  in  general 
prettily  and  pathetically  told." 

In  1767  his  notoriety,  if  not  his  fame,  was 
considerably  increased  by  the  publication  of 
his  theatrical  poem  Thespis,  the  satire  of 
which  gave  great  offence  to  many.  But  the 
power  it  displayed  attracted  the  attention  of 
Garrick,  and  led  to  the  production,  a  year 
later,  of  Kelly's  first  comedy,  False  Delicacy,  at 
Drury  Lane.  This  play  had  more  than  the 
usual  success,  and  was  declared  with  pardon- 
able exaggeration  by  his  friends  to  be  "  the 
best  fii'st  comedy  ever  written."  It  also — and 
this  the  author  thought  more  important — pro- 
duced him  a  profit  of  about  X700,  and  was 
translated  into  several  languages. 

In  1769  he  entered  himself  as  a  member  of 
the  Honourable  Society  of  the  Middle  Temple; 
but  though  very  acceptable  to  the  students, 
and  giving  every  sign  of  being  a  clever  lawj'er, 
he  was  at  fii-st  refused  admittance  to  the  bar. 
In  1770  he  brought  .out  his  comedy  A  Word 
to  the  Wise;  but  as  some  persons  believed 
(wrongly)  that  he  was  writing  in  government 
pay,  a  cabal  was  formed  and  the  play  attacked 
each  night  until  withdrawn.  However,  out  of 
evil  came  good,  for  on  publishing  the  play 
Kelly  received  over  £800  in  subscri])tioiis, 
besides  the  profits  of  the  general  sale. 

In  1771,  when  his  next  play,  Clementina,  a 
tragedy,  was  produced,  his  name  was  withheld 
to  avoid  the  opposition  likely  to  arise.  The 
piece  proved  no  great  success,  however,  and  was 
withdrawn  after  the  ninth  night.  In  1774  he 
still  thought  it  wise  to  withhold  his  name  from 
his  new  comedy,  A  Schoo'  for  Wives.  Not 
only  did  lie  do  this,  but  he  prevailed  u])on 
Mr.  Addington  to  stand  father  for  his  off- 
spring, by  which  means  his  enemies  were 
completely  misled,  and  the  play,  being 
judged  without  prejudice,  w;\s  a  great  success. 
After  the  ninth  night  Mr.  Addington,  very 
much  to  the  chagrin  of  Kelly's  foes,  announced 
the  real  author  in  a  letter  in  the  papei-s.  Soon 
after  this  he  produced  an  afterpiece,  entitled 


The  Romance  of  an  Hour,  which  attained  a 
fair  mea.sure  of  success.  In  1776  appeared  his 
comedy  of  The  Man  of  Reason,  which  was  in 
most  respects  a  failure,  and  was  definitely 
"  damned  "  on  the  fii"st  night.  This  so  affected 
Kelly  that,  having  received  his  call  to  the  bar, 
he  resolved  to  assume  the  character  of  barrister 
and  write  no  more  for  the  .stage.  In  this  there 
is  no  doubt  he  made  a  mistake.  His  wi'itings 
for  the  stage  were  producing  him  about  a 
thousand  a  year,  while  as  a  barrister  he  would 
most  likely  have  to  wait  long  and  work  hard 
for  half  the  sum.  Besides,  having  reached  a 
certain  scale  of  expenditure,  it  was  hard  for 
him  to  reduce  it,  and  the  result  was  that  though 
fairly  successful  as  a  beginner  he  fell  into 
debt,  and  his  peace  of  mind  left  him  never  to 
return.  The  mental  worry  soon  began  to  un- 
dermine his  health,  and  in  the  latter  part  of 
January,  1777,  an  abscess  opened  in  his  side, 
which  he  at  first  neglected.  Wlien  consulted, 
his  physicians  advised  the  hot  bath,  and 
he  was  carried  in  a  sedan-chair  to  Newgate 
Street  Bagnio,  but  soon  after  his  return  to  his 
house  in  Gough  Square  he  became  speechless, 
and  next  morning,  the  3d  of  February,  1777, 
he  died,  not  having  completed  his  thirty- 
eighth  year. 

As  a  husband  and  father  Kelly  wa.s  be- 
yond reproach ;  as  a  man  of  the  world  he  was 
ever  ready  to  help  the  afflicted ;  and  as  a 
writer  "  his  genius  was  such  that  had  his 
education  been  better,  and  fortune  easier,  so 
as  to  have  enabled  him  to  select  and  polish 
his  works,  it  probably  might  have  given  his 
name  a  niche  among  the  first  dramatic  poets 
of  this  country."] 


IN    DEBT    AND    IN    DANGERS 

LeesoiUs  Chambers  in  the  Temple. 
Enter  Leeson. 
Lee.  Where  is  this  clerk  of  mine  \     Con- 
nolly ! 

Con.  {Behind.)  Here,  sir. 
Lee.  Have  you  copied  the  marriage-settle- 
ment, as  I  corrected  it? 

Enter  Connolly,  with  pistols. 

Con.  Ay,  honey;  an  hour  ago. 
Lee.  What,  you  have   been   trying    those 
pistols  1 

Con.  By  my  soul  I  have  been  firing  them 


1  This  and  the  next  scene  are  from  The  School  for  Wives. 


174 


HUGH   KELLY. 


this  half  hour,   without  once  being  able  to 
make  them  go  otf. 

Lee.  They  are  plaguy  dirty. 

Con.  In  troth !  so  they  are ;  I  strove  to 
brighten  tliem  up  a  little,  but  some  misfortune 
attends  everything  I  do;  for  the  more  I  clane 
them,  the  dirtiei-  they  are,  honey. 

Lee.  You  have  had  some  of  our  usual  daily 
visitors  for  money,  I  suppose? 

Con.  You  may  say  that ;  and  three  or  four 
of  them  are  now  hanging  about  the  door,  that 
I  wish  handsomely  hanged  anywhere  else,  for 
bodering  us. 

Lee.  No  joking,  Connolly;  my  present  situa- 
tion is  a  very  disagreeable  one. 

Con.  'Faith !  and  so  it  is;  but  who  makes  it 
disagreeable  ?  Your  aunt  Tempest  would  let 
you  have  as  much  money  as  you  please,  but 
you  won't  condescend  to  be  acquainted  with 
her,  though  people  in  this  country  can  be  very 
intimate  friends  without  seeing  one  another's 
faces  for  seven  years. 

Lee.  Do  you  think  me  base  enough  to  receive 
a  favour  from  a  woman  who  has  disgraced  her 
farail}",  and  stoops  to  be  a  kept  mistress?  You 
see,  my  sister  is  already  ruined  by  a  connec- 
tion with  her. 

Con.  Ah !  sir,  a  good  guinea  isn't  the  worse 
for  coming  tlirough  a  bad  hand ;  if  it  was, 
what  would  become  of  us  lawyers?  And,  by 
my  soul,  many  a  high  head  in  London  would 
at  this  minute  be  very  low  if  they  hadn't 
received  favours  even  from  much  worse  people 
than  kept  mistresses. 

Lee.  Others,  Connolly,  may  prostitute  their 
honour  as  they  please ;  mine  is  my  chief  pos- 
session, and  I  must  take  particular  care  of  it. 

Con.  Honour,  to  be  sure,  is  a  very  fine  thing, 
sir,  but  I  don't  see  how  it  is  to  be  taken  care 
of  without  a  little  money;  your  honour,  to  my 
knowledge,  hasn't  been  in  your  own  possession 
these  two  years,  and  the  devil  a  crum  can  you 
honestly  swear  by  till  you  get  it  out  of  the 
hands  of  your  creditors. 

Lee.  I  have  given  you  a  license  to  talk,  Con- 
nolly, because  I  know  you  faithful ;  but  I 
haven't  given  you  a  liberty  to  sport  with  my 
misfortunes. 

Con.  You  know  I'd  die  to  serve  you,  sir;  but 
of  what  use  is  your  giving  me  leave  to  spake, 
if  you  oblige  me  to  hould  my  tongue  ?  'TIS  out 
of  pure  love  and  affection  that  I  put  you  in 
mind  of  your  misfoi'tunes. 

Zee.  Well,  Connolly,  a  few  days  will,  in  all  | 
ja-obability,  enable  ine  to  redeem  my  honour, 
and  to  reward  your  fidelity;  the  lovely  Emily, 
you  know,  has  half  consented  to  embrace  the  ; 


first  opportunity  of  flying  with  me  to  Scotland, 
and  the  paltry  trifles  I  owe  will  not  l)e  missed 
in  her  fortune. 

Con.  But,  dear  sir,  consider  you  are  going 
to  fight  a  duel  this  very  evening ;  and  if  you 
should  be  kilt,  I  fancy  you  will  find  it  a  little 
difiicult  to  run  away  afterwards  with  the  lovely 
Emily. 

Lee.  If  I  fall  there  will  be  an  end  to  my 
misfortunes. 

Con.  But  surely  it  will  not  be  quite  genteel 
to  go  out  of  the  world  without  paying  your 
debts. 

Lee.  But  how  shall  I  stay  in  the  world,  Con- 
nolly, without  punishing  Belville  for  ruining 
my  sister? 

Con.  Oh!  the  devil  fly  away  with  this  honour; 
an  ounce  of  common  sense  is  worth  a  whole 
shipload  of  it,  if  we  must  prefer  a  bullet  or  a 
halter  to  a  fine  young  lady  and  a  great  fortune. 

Lee.  We'll  talk  no  more  on  the  subject  at 
present.  Take  this  letter  to  Mr.  Belville ; 
deliver  it  into  his  own  hand,  be  sure,  and 
bring  me  an  answer ;  make  haste,  for  I  shall 
not  stir  out  till  you  come  back. 

Con.  By  my  soul,  I  wish  you  may  be  able  to 
stir  out  then,  honey.     Oh  !  but  that's  true^ — 

Lee.  What's  the  matter? 

Con.  Why,  sir,  the  gentleman  I  last  lived 
clerk  with  died  lately  and  left  me  a  legacy  of 
twenty  guineas. 

Lee.  What !  is  Mr.  Stanley  dead  ? 

Con.  'Faith !  his  friends  have  behaved  very 
unkindly  if  he  is  not,  for  they  have  buried 
liim  these  six  weeks. 

Lee.  And  what  then? 

Con.  Why,  sir,  I  received  my  little  legacy 
this  morning ;  and  if  you'd  be  so  good  as  to 
keep  it  for  me,  I'd  be  much  obliged  to  you. 

Lee.  Connolly,  I  understand  you,  but  I  am 
already  shamefully  in  your  debt.  You've  had 
no  money  from  me  this  age. 

Con.  Oh,  sir !  that  does  not  signify ;  if  you 

are  not  kilt  in  this  d d  duel,  you'll  be  able 

enough  to  pay  me;  if  you  are,  I  sha'n't  want  it. 

Lee.  Why  so,  my  poor  fellow  ? 

Con.  Because,  though  I  am  but  your  clerk, 
and  though  I  think  fighting  the  most  foolish 
thing  upon  earth,  I'm  as  much  a  gintleman  as 
yourself,  and  have  as  much  right  to  commit 
a  murder  in  the  way  of  duelling. 

Zee.  And  what  then?  You  have  no  quarrel 
with  Mr.  Belville? 

Con.  I  shall  have  a  d d  quarrel  with  him 

though  if  you're  kilt ;  your  death  shall  be 
revenged,  depend  upon  it,  so  let  that  content 
you. 


HUGH   KELLY. 


175 


Lee.  My  dear  Connolly,  1  lioj)e  I  sha'n't 
want  such  a  proof  of  your  affection.  How  he 
distresses  me  !  {Aside.) 

Con.  You  will  want  a  second,  I  sui)j)ose,  in 
this  affair;  I  stood  second  to  my  own  brother, 
in  the  Fifteen  Acres ;  and  though  that  lias 
made  me  detest  the  very  thought  of  duelling 
ever  since,  yet  if  you  want  a  friend  I'll  attend 
you  to  the  field  of  death  with  a  gi-eat  deal  of 
satisfaction. 

Lee.  I  thank  you,  Connolly,  but  I  think  it 
extremely  wrong  in  any  man  who  ha.s  a  quarrel 
to  expose  his  friend  to  difficulties;  we  shouldn't 
seek  for  redress  if  we  were  not  equal  to  the 
task  of  fighting  our  own  battles;  and  I  choose 
you  particularly  to  carry  my  letter,  because 
you  may  be  supposed  ignorant  of  the  contents, 
and  thought  to  be  acting  in  the  ordinary 
coui'se  of  your  business. 

Con.  Say  no  more  about  it,  honey ;  I  will  be 
back  with  you  presently.  {Going,  returns.)  I 
put  the  twenty  guineas  in  your  pocket  before 
you  were  up,  sir;  and  I  don't  believe  you'd 
look  for  such  a  thing  there  if  I  wasn't  to  tell 
you  of  it.  \_Exit. 

Lee.  This  faithful,  noble-hearted  creature! — 
but  let  me  Hy  from  thought ;  the  business  I 
have  to  execute  will  not  bear  the  test  of  re- 
flection. \_Exit. 

Re-enter  Connolly. 

Con.  As  this  is  a  challenge,  I  shoiddn't  go 
without  a  sword;  come  down,  little  tickle- 
pitcher.  {Takes  a  sword.)  Some  peojjle  may 
think  me  very  conceited  now;  but  as  the 
du-tiest  blacklegs  in  town  can  wear  one  with- 
out being  stared  at,  I  don't  think  it  can  suffer 
any  disgrace  by  the  side  of  an  honest  man. 

[Exit. 

[Leeson  saved  his  life,  and  his  honour  too,  his 
adversary  confessing  himself  in  the  wrong. 
However,  he  ultimately  had  his  revenge,  as 
the  Emily  whom  he  afterwards  eloped  with 
was,  unknown  to  him,  sister  to  his  advei-sary. 
At  length  all  parties  consented  to  the  marriage, 
and  all  ended  well.] 


A  HOLLOW  VICTORY. 

[General  Savage  has  a  son.  Captain  Savage, 
in  love  with  Miss  Walsingham,  who  returns 
his  love.  The  general  himself  takes  a  fancy 
for  the  young  lady,  however,  and  goes  a  woo- 
ing,— she  imagining  he  speaks  for  his  son.] 


Enter  General  Savage. 

Gen.  Your  hall-door  standing  open,  Spruce, 
and  none  of  your  sentinels  being  on  guard,  I 
have  surprised  your  camp  thus  far  without 
resistance.     Where  is  your  master  ? 

Spruce  (a  servant).  Just  gone  out  with  Cap- 
tain Savage,  sir. 

Ge7i.  Is  your  lady  at  home? 

Spruce.  No,  sir;  but  Miss  Walsingham  is  at 
home  ;  shall  I  inform  her  of  your  visit  ? 

Gen.  There  is  no  occasion  to  inform  her  of  it, 
for  here  she  is,  Spruce.  \_Exit  Spruce. 

Enter  Miss  Walsingham. 

Miss  W.  General  Savage,  your  most  liumble 
servant. 

Gen.  My  dear  Miss  Walsingham,  it  is  rather 
cruel  that  you  should  be  left  at  home  by  your- 
self, and  yet  I  am  greatly  rejoiced  to  find  you 
at  present  without  company. 

Miss  W.  I  can't  but  think  myself  in  the  best 
company  when  I  have  the  honour  of  your 
couvei-sation,  general. 

Gen.  You  flatter  me  too  much,  madam;  yet 
I  am  come  to  talk  to  you  on  a  serious  affair. 
Miss  Walsingham ;  an  affair  of  importance  to 
me  and  to  yourself.  Have  you  leisure  to  fa- 
vour me  with  a  short  audience,  if  I  beat  a 
parley  ? 

Miss  W.  Anything  of  importance  to  you,  sir, 
is  always  sufficient  to  command  my  leisure. 
'Tis  as  the  captain  suspected.  {Aside.) 

Gen.  You  tremble,  my  lovely  girl,  but  don't 
be  alarmed ;  for  though  my  business  is  of  an 
important  nature,  I  hoj)e  it  won't  be  of  a  dis- 
agreeable one. 

Miss  W.  And  yet  I  am  gi-eatly  agitated. 

{Aside.) 

Gen.  Soldiers,  Miss  Walsingham,  are  said 
to  be  generally  favoured  by  the  kind  partiality 
of  the  ladies. 

Miss  W.  The  ladies  are  not  without  grati- 
tude, sir,  to  those  who  devote  their  lives  pecu- 
liarly to  the  service  of  their  country. 

Gen.  Generously  said,  madam;  then  give  me 
leave,  without  any  masked  battery,  to  ask  if 
the  heart  of  an  honest  soldier  is  a  prize  at  all 
worth  your  acceptance  ? 

Miss  W.  Upon  my  word,  sir,  there's  no 
masked  battery  in  this  question. 

Gen.  I  am  as  fond  of  a  coup  de  main,  madam, 
in  love,  as  in  war.  I  hate  the  method  of  sap- 
ping a  town  when  there  is  a  possibility  of  en- 
tering sword  in  hand. 

Miss  W.  Why,  really,  sir,  a  woman  may  as 


176 


HUGH  KELLY. 


well  know  her  own  mind  when  she  is  first 
summoned  by  the  trumpet  of  a  lover,  as  when 
she  undei'goes  all  the  tiresome  formality  of  a 
siege.  You  see,  I  have  caught  your  own  mode 
of  conversing,  general. 

Gen.  And  a  very  great  compliment  I  con- 
sider it,  madam ;  but  now  that  you  have  can- 
didly confessed  an  acquaintance  with  your  own 
mind,  answer  me  with  that  frankness  for 
which  everybody  admires  you  much.  Have 
you  any  objection  to  change  the  name  of  Wal- 
singham  ? 

Miss  W.  Why,  then,  frankly,  General  Savage, 
I  say.  No. 

Gen.  Ten  thousand  thanks  to  you  for  this 
kind  declaration. 

Miss  W.  I  hope  you  won't  think  it  a  forward 
one. 

Gen.  I'd  sooner  see  my  son  run  away  in  the 
day  of  battle ;  I'd  sooner  think  Lord  Eussell 
was  bribed  by  Loviis  XIV.,  and  sooner  vilify 
the  memory  of  Algernon  Sydney. 

Miss  W.  How  unjust  it  was  ever  to  suppose 
the  general  a  tyrannical  father !  {Aside.) 

Gen.  You  have  told  me  condescendingly, 
Miss  Walsingham,  that  you  have  no  objection 
to  change  your  name ;  I  have  but  one  more 
question  to  ask. 

Miss  W.  Pray  propose  it. 

Gen.  "Would  the  name  of  Savage  be  dis- 
agreeable to  you?  Speak  frankly  again,  my 
dear  girl ! 

Miss  W.  Why,  then,  again,  I  frankly  say,  No. 

Gen.  You  make  me  too  happy ;  and  though 
I  shall  readily  own  that  a  proposal  of  this 
nature  would  come  with  more  propriety  from 
my  son — 

Miss  W.  I  am  much  better  pleased  that  you 
make  the  proposal  youreelf,  sir. 

Gen.  You  are  too  good  to  me.  Torrington 
thought  that  I  should  meet  with  a  repulse. 

{Aside.) 

Miss  W.  Have  you  communicated  this  busi- 
ness to  the  captain,  sir? 

Gen.  No,  ray  dear  madam,  I  did  not  think 
that  at  all  necessary.  I  have  always  been 
attentive  to  the  caj^tain's  happiness,  and  I 
propose  that  he  shall  be  married  in  a  few 
days. 

Miss  W.  What,  whether  I  will  or  no? 

Gen.  Oh  !  you  can  have  no  objection. 

Miss  W.  I  must  be  consulted,  however,  about 
the  day,  general;  but  nothing  in  my  power  shall 
be  wanting  to  make  him  happy. 

Gen.  Obliging  loveliness  ! 

Miss  W.  You  may  imagine  that  if  I  were  not 
previously  impressed   in  favour  of  your  pro- 


posal, it  would  not  have  met  my  concurrence 
so  readily. 

Gen.  Then  you  own  that  I  had  a  previous 
friend  in  the  garrison? 

Miss  W.  I  don't  blush  to  acknowledge  it, 
when  I  consider  the  accomplishments  of  the 
object,  sir. 

Gen.  Oh  !  this  is  too  much,  madam ;  the 
principal  merit  of  the  object  is  his  passion  for 
Miss  Walsingham. 

Miss  W.  Don't  say  that,  general,  I  beg  of 
you;  for  I  don't  think  there  are  many  women 
in  the  kingdom  who  could  behold  him  with 
inditference. 

Gen.  Ah  !  you  flattering — flattering  angel ! 
and  yet,  by  the  memory  of  Marlborough,  my 
lovely  girl,  it  was  the  idea  of  a  prepossession 
on  your  part  which  encouraged  me  to  hope  for 
a  favourable  reception. 

Miss  W.  Then  I  must  have  been  very  indis- 
creet, for  I  laboured  to  conceal  that  prepos- 
session as  much  as  possible. 

Gen.  You  couldn't  conceal  it  from  me ;  you 
couldn't  conceal  it  from  me.  The  female  heart 
is  a  field  which  I  am  thoroughly  acquainted 
with,  and  which  has,  more  than  once,  been  a 
witness  to  my  victories,  madam. 

Miss  W.  I  don't  at  all  doubt  your  success 
with  the  ladies,  general;  but  as  we  now  under- 
stand one  another  so  perfectly,  you  will  give 
me  leave  to  retire. 

Gen.  One  word,  my  dear  creature,  and  no 
more;  I  shall  wait  upon  you  sometime  to-day, 
with  Mr.  Torrington,  about  the  necessary 
settlements. 

Miss  W.  You  must  do  as  you  please,  general; 
you  are  invincible  in  everything. 

Gen.  And  if  you  please,  we'll  keep  every- 
thing a  profound  secret  till  the  articles  are  all 
settled,  and  the  definitive  treaty  ready  for 
execution. 

Miss  W.  You  may  be  sure  that  delicacy  will 
not  sufl'er  me  to  be  communicative  on  the  sub- 
ject, sir. 

Gen.  Then  you  leave  everything  to  my  man- 
agement. 

Miss  W.  I  can't  trust  a  more  noble  nego- 
tiator. [Exit. 

G'eji.  The  day's  my  own.  {Si7iffs.)  "Britons, 
strike  home ;  strike  home  !     Revenge,"  &c. 

[Fxit. 

[However,  the  day  was  not  his  own,  and  he 
was  soon  made  sensil)le  of  his  mistake.  But 
he  put  a  good  face  upon  the  matter,  and  handed 
over  the  lady  to  his  sou  with  the  utmost 
generosity.] 


HUGH   KELLY. 


177 


EXTRACT   FROM   "THESPIS." 

Bold  is  his  talk  in  this  discerning  age, 

When  every  witling  prates  about  the  stage, 

And  some  pert  title  arrogantly  brings 

To  trace  up  nature  through  her  noblest  springs; 

Bold  in  such  times  his  talk  must  be  allow'd, 

Who  seeks  to  form  a  judgment  for  the  crowd; 

Presumes  the  public  sentiment  to  guide, 

And  speaks  at  once  to  prejudice  and  pride. 

Of  all  the  studies  in  these  happier  days, 

By  which  we  soar  ambitiously  to  praise. 

Of  all  the  fine  performances  of  art, 

Which  charm  the  eye  or  captivate  the  heart, 

None  like  the  stage  our  admiration  draws. 

Or  gains  such  high  and  merited  applause  ; 

Yet  has  this  art  unhappily  no  rules 

To  check  the  vain  impertinence  of  fools. 

To  point  out  rude  deformity  from  grace. 

And  strike  a  line  'twixt  acting  and  grimace. 

High  as  the  town  with  reverence  we  may  name, 
And  stamp  its  general  sentiments  to  fame; 
Loud  as  perhaps  we  echo  to  its  voice, 
And  pay  a  boundless  homage  to  its  choice; 
Still,  if  we  look  minutely  we  shall  find 
Each  single  judge  so  impotent  or  blind, 
That  even  the  actor  whom  we  most  admire 
For  ease  or  humour,  dignity  or  fire. 
Shall  often  blush  to  meet  the  ill-earned  bays, 
And  pine  beneath  an  infamy  of  praise. 


ALL   HER   OWN   WAY. 

(from  "the  romance  of  an  hour.") 

Lady  Di  Strangeways  and  Sir  Hector 
her  Husband. 

Sir  Hector.  An  impudent  puppy,  to  pester 
me  with  his  fees  of  honour !  I  tliought  that 
at  court  it  was  not  honourable  to  pay  any- 
thing. 

Lady  Di.  But,  Sir  Hector  Strangeways — 

Sir  Hector.  But,  Lady  Di  Strangeways,  I 
tell  you  again  that  if  I  had  all  the  wealth  of 
ihe  Spanish  galleons,  I  would  not  part  with 
a  single  piece  of  eight  upon  this  occasion.  I 
did  not  ask  them  to  knight  me,  and  they  may 
unknight  me  again  if  they  like  it ;  for  I  value 
the  broad  pendant  on  the  Dreadnought  mast- 
head above  any  title  which  they  can  splice, — 
to  all  the  red,  or  gi'een,  or  blue  rags  in  Chris- 
tendom. 

Lady  Di.  Well,  my  dear,  but  though  an 

admiral's  uniform  is  a  very  pretty  thing,  there 

is   something    inexpressibly  attracting  in  a 
Vol.  I. 


star ;  and  if  I  could  only  persuade  you  to  wear 
a  bag-wig,  that  red  ribbon  would  give  a  world 
of  brilliancy  to  your  comj)lexion. 

Sir  Hector.  My  complexion  !  Zounds,  wife, 
don't  make  me  mad  !  A  weather-beaten  sailor 
of  fifty  ought  to  be  mightily  concerned  about 
the  brilliancy  of  his  complexion. 

Lady  Di.  Lord  !  Sir  Hector,  you  are  not  so 
old  by  lialf  a  year;  and  if  you'd  follow  my 
advice  about  the  bag,  you'd  look  as  young  as 
Billy  Brownlow — 

Sir  Hector.  Avast,  Di ! — avast !  I  have  al- 
ready suffered  you  to  crowd  too  much  canvas, 
and  to  make  a  puppy  of  me  suificiently. 

Lady  Di.  I  Ijeg,  Sir  Hector,  that  you  will 
soften  the  coarseness  of  your  phraseology, 
and  use  a  little  less  of  the  quarter-deck  dia- 
lect. 

Sir  Hector.  Zounds  1  madam,  'tis  your  own 
fault  if  the  gale  blows  in  your  teeth  ;  I  might 
have  been  out  with  the  squadron  in  the  Medi- 
ten-anean  hadn't  I  humoured  your  fancy,  and 
foolishly  stayed  to  be  piped  in  at  the  installa- 
tion. However,  there's  some  chance  yet, — the 
admiral  appointed  is  attended  by  three  doctors, 
and  if  they  heave  him  over  I  have  a  promise 
of  succeeding  in  the  command.  There's  a 
cable  of  comfort  for  you  to  snatch  at.  Lady  Di. 

Lady  Di.  Yes,  you  cruel !  and  for  fear  bad 
news  should  not  reach  me  soon  enough,  you 
have  ordered  an  express  to  be  sent  up  directly 
from  Portsmouth  the  moment  the  poor  admiral 
is  gathered  to  his  progenitors. 

Sir  Hector.  Yes,  the  moment  his  anchor  is 
a-peak ;  and  I'll  take  your  sou  Orson  with  me, 
too,  for  I  shall  have  him  turned  into  a  monkey 
if  he  stays  much  longer  iishore. 

Lady  Di.  Sm^ely  you  won't  be  such  a  brute, 
my  love.  The  boy  is  quite  a  sea  monster  al- 
ready, and  I  must  keep  him  close  under  my 
own  eye,  to  give  him  some  little  touches  of 
humanity. 

Sir  Hector.  Oi-son  is  wild,  I  grant,  but  he 
is  well-meaning;  and  therefore  I  forbid  aU. 
lessons  of  good-breeding  that  ai'e  likely  to 
make  a  heel  in  his  principles. 

Orson  enters. 

Orson.  Huzza  !  father,  huzza ! 

Sir  Hector.  What  do  you  cheer  at,  lad? 

Orson.  Here's  sax  advice-boat  that  Colonel 
Ormsby  has  just  made  London,  and  wUl  take 
a  bei 
fired. 

Lady  Di.  How  often  must  I  teU  you,  child, 
that  it  is  exceedingly  vulgar  to  appear  either 
surprised  or  overjoyed  at  anji^hing? 

12 


178 


HUGH   KELLY. 


Sir  Hector.  Don't  desire  the  boy  to  slacken 
his  sails  in  a  cliase  of  good-nature. 

Ladi/  Di.  Why,  what  is  the  fool  in  raptiu-es 
for?  he  never  saw  Colonel  Ormsby  since  the 
moment  of  his  existence. 

Orson.  No,  mother;  but  I  know  that  he  is 
my  uncle  Brownlow's  friend ;  that  he  has 
weathered  my  uncle  from  many  a  bitter  blast, 
and  is  to  be  married  to  the  sweet  young  lady 
my  uncle  lately  brought  us  home  from  Bengal. 

Sir  Hector.  And  has  anybody  carried  the 
news  to  Zelinda? 

Lady  Di.  The  Lady  Zelinda,  my  dear;  you 
know  that  her  father  was  an  Indian  orurah, 
or  nobleman  of  great  authority  ! 

Orson.  I  sent  Bussora  aloft  with  the  news, 
and  the  poor  fellow  was  as  much  rejoiced  as 
a  man  of  war  on  short  allowance  would  be  in 
sight  of  the  Downs. 

Sir  Hector.  I  do  love  that  Bussora,  he's  so 
faithfid  a  creatine,  and  has  a  heart  as  sound 
as  a  biscuit. 

Lady  Di.  I  don't  wonder  that  he's  so  great 
a  favourite  with  his  lady,  for  he's  extremely 
intelligent,  and  would,  I  dare  say,  readily 
hazard  his  life  in  her  service. 

Orson.  Zounds !  I'd  stand  a  broadside  for 
her  myself  at  any  time. 

Sir  Hector.  D you,  sirrah,  do  you  swear? 

One  would  think  that  your  ship  was  sinking, 
and  that  you  expected  every  moment  to  be 
launched  into  the  next  world,  you  young 
rascal ! 

Lady  Di.  Ay,  this  is  your  blessed  system  of 
sea  education. 

Sir  Hector.  Hark'ee,  'scapegrace,  mind  your 
hits,  if  you'd  avoid  a  rope's-end ;  and  remem- 
ber to  keep  your  wickedness  under  hatches 
till  you  come  to  years  of  discretion,  you  puppy. 

Lady  Di.  Mercy  upon  us !  and  is  he  then 
to  let  it  appear  above-board.  Fine  doctrine 
truly,  that  our  vices  are  to  be  excused  in  pi'o- 
portion  as  we  acquire  consciousness  of  their 
enormity.  You  should  study  my  mode  of  ex- 
pression, Sir  Hector. 

Orson.  Why,  I  meant  no  harm,  tho'  I've 
raised  such  a  squall.  Everybody  loves  Miss 
Zelinda,  and  many  a  heavy  heart  has  it  given 
me,  since  she  cast  anchor  in  this  house,  to  see 
her  so  melancholy,  poor  soul ! 

Sir  Hector.  She's  a  delightful  girl,  that's  the 
truth  of  it,  and  I  hope  that  the  arrival  of 
Ormsljy  will  prevent  the  worms  of  her  sorrow 
from  eating  into  the  planks  of  her  constitu- 
tion. 

Lady  Di.  Lord,  my  dear,  do  you  think  that 
a  mind  so  delicate  as  hers  can  be  destitute  of 


gratitude,  or  indifferent  about  a  man  who  not 
only  repeatedly  saved  her  father's  life  in  the 
commotions  of  the  East,  but,  what  was  still 
more,  preserved  the  ladies  of  his  family? 

Sir  Hector.  Come,  come,  Ormsby  is  a  noble 
fellow. 

Orson.  As  ever  stepped  from  stem  to  stern, 
my  uncle  Brownlow  says. 

Sir  Hector.  And  Zelinda's  father  behaved 
nobly  to  him  when  his  dead-lights  were  hung 
out. 

Lady  Di.  I  suppose  you  mean  by  bequeath- 
ing him  his  only  daughter  in  his  last  moments, 
who  is  mistress  of  so  large  a  fortune. 

Sir  Hector.  Why,  is  not  she  an  Acapulco 
vessel  in  herself,  to  say  nothing  of  her  being 
ballasted  with  rupees  and  pagodas  ? 

Lady  Hi.  And  could  her  father,  who  loved 
the  English  extremely,  who  married  her 
mother  an  English  woman,  and  who  knew 
the  colonel's  worth  so  well,  act  more  prudently, 
in  the  distracted  state  of  his  country,  than  in 
giving  his  child  to  a  man  who  was  not  only 
able  to  protect  her  against  all  dangers,  but 
calculated  besides  to  make  her  an  admirable 
husband  ? 

*SjV  Hector.  Why,  your  brother  tells  me  that 
Abdalla  had  none  of  his  country  superstition 
on  board  his  mind. 

Orson.  Wasn't  he  a  heathen,  father  ? 

Sir  Hector.  Yes,  lad;  but  for  all  that  he 
steered  his  course  very  sensibly,  and  knew 
that  the  chart  of  a  good  conscience  would  bring 
a  ship  of  any  nation  to  safe  moorings  in  what 
our  Methodist  boatswain  calls  the  river  of 
Jordan. 

Orson.  Lord,  father;  boatswain  says  that 
the  river  runs  by  some  town  called  the  New 
Jerusalem,  but  I  never  could  find  either  of 
them  in  the  map. 

Lady  Di.  You  may  easily  judge  the  liber- 
ality of  Al)dalla's  mind  by  the  accomplish- 
ments of  Zelinda. 

Sir  Hector.  Wliy,shesi3eaks  English,  French, 
and  Italian. 

Lady  Di.  Like  her  vernacular  tongue. 

Orson.  Yes,  she  has  a  rare  knack  at  her 
tongue,  and  I  don't  believe  that  there's  ever  a 
foreign  merchantman  in  the  whole  Thames 
but  she's  able  to  hail  in  her  own  lingo. 

Sir  Hector.  Then  she  sings  so  sweetly. 

Orson.  Yes,  father ;  but  she  sings  always 
mournful,  like  the  mad  negro  that  died  in 
love  for  the  ale-house  girl  at  Portsmouth. 

Lady  Di.  Like  the  mad  negro  i  Mercy  upon 
me,  what  a  thing  am  I  a  mother  to  ! 

Sir  Hector.  Doesn't  she  dance  charmingly,  Di  ? 


JAMES   DELACOUR. 


179 


Lady  Di.  Divinely ! — I  know  but  one  wo- 
ni;in  in  England  who  is  her  sujoerior  in  that 
accomplishment. 

Sir  Hector.  And  she  is  no  more  to  be  com- 
pared to  that  woman  in  anything  than  one 
of  the  royal  yachts  to  a  bum-boat  upon  the 
Thames. 

Lady  Di.  I  am  always  certain  of  a  compli- 
ment from  you,  Sir  Hector. 

Orson.  Lord,  mother,  sure  it  wasn't  your- 
self that  you  were  weighing  up  with  Miss 
Zelinda  I 

Lady  Di.  You  odious  sea-calf, — quit  the 
room — quit  the  room,  you  detestable  porpoise! 

Sir  Hector.  Who  runs  foul  of  politeness  now, 
Di? 

Orson.  We  had  best  cut  and  run,  father. 


Lady  Di.  And  you,  Sir  Hector,  to  stand  by 
tuid  see  me  treated  in  this  manner. 

Sir  Hector.  Slip  the  cables,  lad.  This  is 
damnable  weather,  and  will  speedily  blow  a 
hurricane.  {^Exit  Sir  Hector  and  Orson. 

Lady  Di.  The  brutes  —  the  abominable 
brutes!  No  woman  surely  had  ever  such  a 
husband,  or  such  a  son.  But  I  deserve  it  all 
for  having  the  lea.st  connection  with  an  ele- 
ment where  the  utmost  the  very  best  can 
arrive  at  is  to  be  so  many  respectable  Hotten- 
tots? My  sufferings  should  teach  ladies  of 
beauty  and  birth  not  to  throw  their  persons 
away.  Yet  I  should  not  have  been  thrown 
away  myself,  if  any  lover  had  offered  of  a 
more  eligible  character  than  this  barbarian 
here. 


JAMES     DELACOUR. 


Born  1709  — Died  17S1. 


[James  Delacour,  or  De  la  Court,  as  he  some- 
times signed  himself,  was  born  in  the  county 
of  Cork  in  the  year  1709.  He  was  second  son 
of  a  gentleman  of  considerable  means  and 
descended  from  an  old  and  highly  respected 
family.  His  university  education  he  received 
at  Trinity  College,  but  while  there  the  wait- 
ings of  Pope  made  such  an  impression  on  him 
that  the  Muses  of  learning  were  too  often 
neglected  for  those  of  poetry.  While  in  his 
twentieth  year  he  produced  his  first  poem  of 
importance,  Abelard  to  Eloisa,  a  kind  of  an- 
swer to  and  imitation  of  Pope's  Eloisa  to 
Abelard.  This  poem  was  considered  not  un- 
w^orthy  of  its  subject,  though  of  course  inferior 
to  its  prototype.  During  the  next  year  or  two 
he  produced  a  considerable  number  of  sonnets 
and  short  pieces,  which  were  well  received; 
and  in  1733  his  principal  work,  The  Prospect  of 
Poetry.  '•  This  poem,"  says  the  writer  of  "Table 
Talk"  in  The  European  Magazine,  "though 
partly  didactic,  abounds  in  many  beautiful 
descriptions  of  the  joroper  subjects  for  poetry, 
ornamented  with  much  classical  taste,  and 
above  all  polished  to  a  degree  of  harmony 
which  at  once  reached  perfection."  Thomson 
was  so  pleased  with  it  that  he  addressed  to 
him  a  commendatory  set  of  verses. 

When  the  nine  days'  gossip  over  his  poem 
had  died  out  Delacour  entered  into  holy 
ordei-s,  but  here  again  his  heart  was  not  in  his 
work.    Instead  of  studying  sermons  he  studied 


rhymes,  and  he  preferred  to  spend  his  time  in 
geiaial  company  rather  tlian  in  visiting  his 
parishioners.  This  soon  led  him  to  a  love  for 
the  bottle ;  never,  however,  to  such  an  abuse 
of  it  as  might  lead  to  actual  degradation. 
Being  no  hypocrite,  all  his  acts  were  open 
to  the  world.  This  seemed  so  eccentric  to 
those  around  him  that  he  soon  began  to  be 
called  "  the  mad  parson."  The  graver  kind  of 
people  began  to  avoid  him,  the  lighter-headed 
sought  his  company  "  for  the  sake  of  the  fun." 
In  the  end,  as  dissipation  grew  on  him.  his  brain 
really  became  affected,  and  he  imagined  him- 
self, like  Socrates,  accompanied  by  a  familiar 
demon  that  enabled  him  to  foretell  the 
future.  One  or  two  lucky  hits  caused  not  only 
himself  but  a  great  number  of  the  pul  ilic  to 
become  convinced  of  his  power,  and  tliough 
he  made  many  mistakes,  one  success  was  suf- 
ficient to  wipe  away  the  memory  of  a  hundred 
failures.  Meanwhile  his  early  love  remained 
strong  upon  him,  and  in  his  character  as  a 
prophet  he  did  not  forget  that  he  was  also  a 
poet.  Verses  flowed  from  his  pen  as  regularly 
as  when  he  was  in  the  heyday  of  youth  and 
mental  vigoui'.  Strange  to  say,  these  verses 
gave  few  signs  of  his  derangement,  if  we  ex- 
cept an  occasional  badly  constructed  line,  pos- 
sibly the  result  of  carelessness  as  much  as  of 
anjiihing  else. 

Towards  the  latter  part  of  his  life  he  was 
forced,  for  self-preservation's  sake,  to  sell  what 


180 


JAMES   DELACOUR. 


little  property  lie  had  to  his  brother,  by  wliom 
lie  was  afterwards  lodged  and  boarded,  and 
paid  a  small  sum  yearly.  This  small  sum 
frequently  dwindled  almost  to  nothing,  owing 
to  a  system  which  the  poet  ado2:)ted  of  having 
himself  fined  a  shilling  for  every  night  he 
stayed  out  of  doors  after  twelve. 

Delacour  died  in  the  year  1781,  at  the 
age  of  seventy-two,  regi'etted  by  the  poorer 
people,  and  spoken  of  as  "  one  who  hurt  no- 
body but  himself."  He  left  behind  him  a 
considerable  number  of  poems  which  have 
never  seen  the  light.] 


HOW   LOVE   WAS   BORN. 

Here  in  the  bower  of  beauty  newly  shorn, 

Let  Fancy  sit,  and  sing  how  Love  was  born; 

Wrapt  up  in  roses,  Zephyr  found  the  child, 

In  Flora's  cheek  when  first  the  goddess  smiled; 

Nurst  on  the  bosom  of  the  beauteous  Spring, 

O'er  her  white  breast  he  spread  his  purple  wing, 

On  kisses  fed,  and  silver  drops  of  dew. 

The  little  wanton  into  Cupid  grew; 

Then  armed  his  hand  with  glittering  sparks  of  fire. 

And  tipt  his  shining  arrows  with  desire: 

Hence,  joy  arose  upon  the  wings  of  wind, 

And  hope  presents  the  lover  always  kind; 

Despair  creates  a  rival  for  our  fears, 

And  tender  pity  softens  into  tears. 


EUPHRATES. 


Like  some  smooth  mirror  see  Euphrates  glide 
Through  Dura's  plains,  and  spread  his  bosom  wide; 
On  whose  broad  surface  wat'ry  landscapes  lie, 
And  bending  willows  shade  the  downward  sky; 
There  floating  forests  mixt  with  meadows  move. 
And  the  green  glass  reflects  the  flowers  above; 
Shepherds  and  sheep  along  the  picture  stray. 
And  with  the  water  seem  to  slide  away. 
In  the  blue  gleam,  the  park  and  walls  appear, 
And  gilded  barges,  mixt  with  grazing  deer; 
The  huntsman  sounds — the  frighted  shadow  flies. 
Through  flocks,  greens,  shepherds,  barges,  hounds, 
and  skies. 


A   MOONLIT   NIGHT. 

As  on  a  moonlit  night  when  Neptune  calls. 

His  finny  coursers  from  their  coral  stalls; 

From  some  white  clift,  whose  brow  reflects  the 

deep, 
He  leads  them  forth,  and  bids  the  billows  sleep; 


The  waves  obey:  so  still  a  silence  reigns, 
That  not  a  wrinkle  curls  the  wat'ry  plains; 
Like  floating  mercury  the  waves  appear, 
And  the  sea  whitens  with  a  heav'n  so  clear: 
Before  him  Triton  blows  his  twisted  shell. 
And  distant  sea-nymphs  know  the  signal  well; 
In  long  procession  the  caerulean  train. 
With  joy  confess  the  sovereign  of  the  main: 
Such  were  the  raptures  of  the  sea-green  race, 
When  sweet  Arion  cross'd  the  wat'ry  space; 
When  first  his  fingers  felt  the  music  rise, 
And  mix'd  in  melody  the  seas  and  skies. 
On  land  Amphion  swells  the  magic  song. 
And  round  his  fingers  moving  mountains  throng. 


HOW   TO   PRAISE. 

Fine  is  the  secret,  delicate  the  part, 

To  praise  with  prudence,  and  address  with  art; 

Encomium  chiefly  is  that  kind  of  wit. 

Where  compliments  should  indirectly  hit; 

From  different  subjects  take  their  sudden  rise, 

And  least  expected,  cause  the  more  surprise: 

' '  For  none  have  been  with  admiration  read. 

But  who  beside  their  learning  were  well  bred." 

Such  suit  all  tastes,  on  every  tongue  remain, 

Forbid  our  blushes,  and  prevent  our  pain; 

Such  subjects  best  a  Boyle  might  understand, 

These  call,  my  lord,  for  an  uncommon  hand; 

To  turn  the  finer  features  of  the  soul. 

To  paint  the  passions,  sparkling  as  they  roll: 

The  power  of  numbers,  the  superior  art. 

To  wind  the  springs  that  move  the  beating  heart, 

With  living  words  to  fire  the  blood  to  rage, 

Or  pour  quick  fancy  on  the  glowing  page : 

This  be  thy  praise,  nor  thou  tliis  praise  refuse 

From  no  unworthy,  nor  ungrateful  muse; 

A  muse  as  yet  unblemished,  as  unknown 

Who  scorns  all  flattery,  and  who  envies  none: 

Of  wrongs  forgetful,  negligent  of  fame, 

Who  found  no  patron,  and  who  lost  no  name; 

Indiff'erent  what  the  world  may  think  her  due, 

Whose  friends  are  many,  though  her  years  are  few. 


THE   POOR   POET. 

Poor  is  an  epithet  to  poets  given. 
Yet  David  was  a  bard,  and  loved  by  Heaven. 
Where's  the  foundation?    For  past  times  explore, 
You'll  stn-cly  find  the  lesser  number  poor; 
Great  Maro,  Flaccus,  Lucan,  Ovid  rich. 
And  though  untitled,  of  no  vulgar  pitch: 
Nay,  our  own  times  examples  may  afford 
Of  genius  meeting  in  a  duke  or  lord  ! 
Fam'd  Dorset,  Surrey,  Halifax  were  earls, 


WILLIAM   HAVAKD. 


181 


And  Orrery  and  Chesterfield  are  pearls: 
Hear  Rochester,  Ko.scommon,  Lansdown  sing, 
Bright  Buckingham  and  Falkland  touch  thestring; 
Soft  Sedley,  Dcnham,  Butler,  Steele  were  knights; 
And  Addison,  though  secretary,  writes; 
His  excellency  Prior  tun'd  the  lyre, 
And  Congreve,  though  commissioner,  had  fire; 
Lo!  Pope  and  Swift,  the  wonder  of  our  liays. 
Were  far  from  poor,  and  yet  they  dealt  in  bays. 

Alas !  'tis  wit  itself  has  given  tlie  slur. 

And  bards  too  often  act  the  cabin-cur; 

Thus  wits  to  coxcombs  still  new  weapons  send. 

Who  beat  us  with  the  very  sticks  we  lend. 

Strange  each  profession  to  itself  adheres. 

Fools  herd  together,  foplings  walk  in  pairs, 

But  wits  still  straggling  scatter  at  this  rate. 

By  congregated  fools  are  easy  beat; 

Some  have  of  wit,  and  some  of  wealth  have  suore, 

But  envied  by  the  idiot,  and  the  poor; 

'Twixt  wit  and  folly  there's  eternal  war, 

As  heat  and  cold  cause  thunder  in  the  air. 


ON  SEEING  A  LADY  AT  AX   OPPOSITE 
WINDOW. 

Whilst  on  forbidden  fruit  I  gaze, 

And  look  my  heart  away, 
Behold  my  star  of  Venus  blaze. 

And  smile  upon  the  day. 

Fair  as  the  purple  blushing  hours 
That  paint  the  morning's  eye, 

Or  cheek  of  evening  after  showers 
That  fresh  the  western  sky. 

I  send  a  sigh  with  every  glance, 

Or  drop  a  softer  tear, 
Hard  fate  not  further  to  advance. 

And  yet  to  be  so  near! 

So  Moses  from  fair  Pisgah's  height 

The  Land  of  Promise  ey'd; 
Surveyed  the  regions  of  delight,  — 

He  saw,  came  down,  and  dy'd. 


WILLIAM     HAVARD. 


Born  1710  — Died  1778. 


[William  Havard,  a  clever  actor  as  well  as 
successful  author,  was  born  iu  Dublin  in  the 
year  1710.  His  father  was  a  vintner  in  that 
city,  and  was  in  such  a  position  as  to  give  his 
son  a  university  education.  Young  Havard 
was  intended  for  a  surgeon,  and  proceeded 
so  far  in  his  studies  as  to  acquire  the  neces- 
sary diplomas.  His  heart,  however,  was 
not  in  the  work,  but  inclined  altogether  to 
the  stage,  and  before  attempting  to  commence 
practice  he  left  home  for  London.  There 
he  found  a  first  engagement  in  Goodman's 
Fields  Theatre,  from  wliich  he  moved  after- 
wards to  the  Theatre  Royal.  His  success 
as  an  actor  was  soon  acknowledged,  his  cliief 
characteristic  being  good  sense,  both  in  public 
and  private.  In  1733  appeared  his  first  play, 
Scanderheg,  which  at  once  made  him  as  much 
esteemed  as  an  author  as  he  was  already  as  an 
actor.  The  drama  was  to  some  extent  founded 
on  Lillo's  Christian  Hero,  but  in  every  respect 
surpassed  the  original.  Though  it  was  suc- 
cessful Havard  seems  to  have  1  leen  in  no  hurry 
to  produce  another,  and  it  was  only  after  an 
interval  of  nearly  four  years,  and  at  the  ear- 
nest solicitation  of  the  manager  of  the  company 
of  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  that  he  took  up  his 
pen  again.     So  soon  as  he  consented  to  write 


a  drama  the  manager,  as  Campbell  recounts, 
"  invited  liim  to  his  house,  took  him  up  to  one 
of  its  airiest  apartments,  and  there  locked  him 
up  for  so  many  hours  every  day;  .  .  .  nor 
released  him  .  .  .  till  the  unfortunate  bard 
had  repeated  through  the  keyhole  a  certain 
number  of  new  speeches  in  the  progressive 
tragedy."  King  Charles  the  First,  the  drama 
produced  under  these  strange  circumstances, 
was  a  complete  success,  and,  had  Havard  been 
a  vain  or  an  ambitious  man,  it  might  have 
been  made  the  stepping-stone  to  a  great  career. 
As  it  was,  however,  he  continued  in  his  easy- 
going amiable  way  of  life,  and  a  period  of 
seven  years  elapsed  before  the  appearance  of 
his  third,  and  in  some  respects  best  drama, 
Regulus,  in  1774.  So  far  as  the  theatre-going 
public  was  concerned  this  play  was  not  so  suc- 
cessful as  its  predecessors,  though  far  from 
being  a  failure.  Several  yeai-s  again  elapsed 
before  his  next  and  final  play,  a  farce  called 
The  Elopement,  ai)peared.  This  also  was  a 
success  in  one  sense,  but  was  played  only  at 
the  author's  benefit.  After  this  Havard 
wrote  no  more,  contenting  himself  with  hold- 
ing the  almost  unique  position  of  a  dramatist 
who  has  never  produced  a  failure. 

Six  years  afterwards  he  began  to  feel  him- 


182 


WILLIAM   HA  YARD. 


self  growing  old,  and  immediately  decided  on 
quitting  the  stage.  At  a  benefit  in  his  favour, 
and  in  which  Garrick  played,  he  took  leave 
of  the  public  in  a  formal  epilogue  written  by 
himself,  and  delivered  after  the  play  of  Zara. 
After  this  he  lived  nearly  nine  years,  dying 
on  the  20th  February,  1778.  He  was  buried 
in  Covent  Garden  churchyard,  and  Garrick 
wrote  an  epitaph  for  him  under  the  title  of 
"A  Tribute  to  the  Memory  of  a  Character 
long  known  and  respected."  Fielding  had  a 
high  idea  of  Havard's  talents  as  an  actor,  and 
declared  that,  "  except  Mr.  Garrick  I  do  not 
know  that  he  hath  any  superior  in  tragedy  at 
that  house"  (Covent  Garden  Theatre). 

Of  Havard's  dramas  his  first  and  least  per- 
fect work,  Scanderbeg,  is  still  acted  occasion- 
ally in  country  theatres,  but  we  believe  we 
are  safe  in  saying  that  the  others  are  utterly 
neglected.  They,  however,  deserved  better 
treatment,  being  full  of  truly  dramatic  scenes, 
and  in  some  places  marked  by  writing  of 
rather  a  high  order.  Regulus  is  a  drama  fit 
to  rank  with  some  of  the  best  of  Sheridan 
Knowles',  and  King  Charles  the  First  is  cer- 
tainly superior  to  anything  on  the  same  sub- 
ject since  attempted.] 


CHARLES   I.   IN   PRISON.^ 

Charles  [alone). 

What  art  thou,  Life,  so  dearly  lov'd  by  all? 
What  are  thy  charms  that  thus  the  great  desire 

thee — 
And  to  retain  thee  part  with  pomp  and  titles? 
To  buy  thy  presence  the  gold-watching  miser 
Will  pour  his  bags  of  mouldy  treasure  out, 
And  grow  at  once  a  prodigal.     The  wretch, 
Clad  with  disease  and  poverty's  thin  coat, 
Yet  holds  thee  fast,  tho'  painful  company. 
0  Life!  thou  universal  wish,  what  art  thou? — 
Thou'rt  but  a  day — a  few  uneasy  hours: 
Thy  morn  is  greeted  by  the  flocks  and  herds, 
And  every  bird  that  flatters  with  its  note 
Salutes  thy  rising  sun;  thy  noon  approaching, 
Then  haste  the  flies  and  every  creeping  insect 
To  bask  in  thy  meridian:  that  declining 
As  quickly  they  depart,  and  leave  thy  evening 
To  mourn  the  absent  ray:  night  at  hand, 
Then  croaks  the  raven  conscience,  time  misspent; 
The  owl  despair  screams  hideous,  and  the  bat 
Confusion  flutters  up  and  down — 
Life's  but  a  lengthened  day  not  worth  the  waking 

for. 


I  This  and  the  following  extract  are  from  King  Charles 
the  Firgt. 


Enter  the  Queen. 
My  dearest  queen, 

I  have  been  summing  up  th'  amount  of  life, 
But  found  no  value  in  it,  till  you  came. 

Queen.  Do  not  perplex  yourself  with  thoughts 
like  these. 
Ill-fortune  at  the  worst  returns  to  better, 
At  least  we  think  so  as  it  grows  familiar. 

King.   No,  I  was  only  arming  for  the  worst. 
I  have  try'd  the  temper  of  my  inmost  soul. 
And  find  it  ready  now  for  all  encounters; 
Death  cannot  shake  it. 

Queen.  Do  not  talk  of  death: 

The  apprehension  shakes  my  tender  heart; 
Ages  of  love,  I  hope,  are  yet  to  come 
Ere  that  black  hour  arrives:  such  chilling  thoughts 
Disgrace  the  lodging  of  that  noble  breast. 

Kimj.  What  have  I  not  to  fear?     Thus  close 
confined, 
To-morrow  forc'd  to  trial.     Will  those  men 
Who  insolently  drag  me  to  the  bar 
Stop  in  the  middle  of  their  purpose?     No. 
I  must  prepare  for  all  extremities 
(And  be  that  Power  ador'd  that  lends  me  comfort), 
1  feel  I  am — Oh  do  not  weep,  my  queen. 
Rather  rejoice  with  me,  to  find  my  thoughts 
Outstretch  the  painful  verge  of  human  life, 
And  have  no  wish  on  earth — but  thee!  'tis  there 
Indeed  I  feel:  peace  and  resignation 
Had  wander'd  o'er  the  rooms  of  every  thought 
To  shut  misfortune  out,  but  left  this  door 
Unclos'd,  thro'  which  calamity 
Has  entered  in  thy  shape  to  seize  my  heai't. 

Queen.   Be  more  yourself,  my  lord;  let  majesty 
Take  root  within  thy  heart,  nor  meanly  bend 
Before  ill-fortune's  blast. 

King.  O  doubt  me  not ! 

'Tis  only  on  the  side  where  you  are  placed 
That  I  can  know  a  fear.     For  Charles'  self 
Let  fierce  encounter  with  the  sword  of  danger 
Bring  him  to  bloodiest  proof;  and  if  he  shrinks, 
Despise  him.     Here  I  glory  in  my  weakness. 
He  is  no  man  whom  tenderness  not  melts. 
And  love  so  soft  as  thine.      Let  us  go  in. 
And  if  kind  Heav'n  deigns  me  longer  stay 
On  this  frail  earth,  I  shall  be  only  pleased 
Because  I  have  thy  presence  here  to  crown  me; 
But  if  it  destines  my  immediate  end 
(Hard  as  it  is,  my  queen,  to  part  with  thee), 
I  say  farewell,  and  to  the  blow  resign 
That  strikes  me  here — to  make  me  more  divine. 


FAIRFAX   AND   CROMWELL. 

Faikkax  (alone). 

Why  did  I  conquer — to  repent  of  conquest? 
Who,  though  I  fought  for  liberty  alone, 


WILLIAM  HAVARD. 


183 


Will  yet  acquit  me  of  the  guilt  that  follows? 
Will  future  ages,  when  they  read  my  page 
(Tho'  Charles  himself  absolves  me  of  the  deed), 
Sparc  me  the  name  of  regicide?     O  no! 
I  shall  be  blacken'd  with  my  party's  crimes, 
And  damn'd  with  my  full  share,  tho'  innocent. 
In  vain  then  'gainst  oppression  have  I  warr'd, 
In  vain  for  liberty  uprear'd  the  sword; 
Posterity's  black  curse  shall  brand  my  name, 
And  make  me  live  in  infamy  for  ever. 

Xow  valour,   break  thy  sword,   thy  standard, 
victory, 
Furl  up  thy  ensigns,  bold  hostility, 
And  sink  into  inaction,  since,  alas ! 
One  tainted  heart,  or  one  ambitious  brain. 
Can  turn  the  current  of  the  noblest  purpose. 
And  spoil  the  trophies  of  an  age's  war. 
But  see  where,  to  my  wish,  stern  Cromwell  comes. 
Now  urge  him  strongly  for  the  life  of  Charles, 
And  if  entreaty  fails,  avow  thy  purpose. 

Cromwell  [enteriivj). 

Fairfax  in  thought!     My  noble  lord,  good  day. 

Fairfax.   To  make  it  good,  let  Cromwell  grant 
my  prayer. 
So  mercy  and  the  sun  shall  shine  together. 

Cromwell.   Still  on  this  paltry  subject!  Fairfax, 
why, 
AVhy  will  you  wrong  entreaty  by  this  cause? 
Fairfax  is  wise,  and  should  not  ask  of  Cromwell 
To  grant  what  justice  stops;  yours  are  not  years 
When  childhood  prattles,  or  when  dotage  mopes: 
Pardon  the  expression. 

Fairfax.  I  forgive  you  all, 

All  you  can  think,  but  rigour  to  the  king. 

Cromwell.   Pr'ythee  no  more :  this  mercy  that 
you  pray  for 
As  ill  becomes  the  tongue  as  my  severity; 
Nay,  worse,  would  you  obstruct  the  law 
In  its  due  office?  nor  permit  the  axe 
To  fall  upon  offenders  such  as  Charles? 
Would  you  see  tyranny  again  arise, 
And  spread  in  its  foundation?     Let  us  then 
Seize  on  our  general.  Liberty,  who  still 
Has  in  the  front  of  battle  fought  our  cause. 
And  led  us  on  to  conquest;  let  us  bind  him 
In  the  strong  chains  of  rough  prerogative, 
And  throw  him  helpless  at  the  feet  of  Charles: 
He  will  absolve  us  then,  and  praise  our  folly. 

Fairfax.  This  is  a  sophistry  too  weak  for  reason; 
You  would  excuse  the  guilt  of  Charles'  death 
By  showing  me  the  opposite  extreme; 
But  can  you  find  no  mean,  no  middle  course. 
Steering  between  the  danger  of  the  last 
And  horror  of  the  first?     I  know  you  can. 

Cromwell.   It  is  not  to  be  done:  would  Fairfax 
now, 
When  he  has  labour'd  up  the  steep  ascent. 
And  wasted  time  and  spirits,  would  he  now, — 
When  but  one  step  exalts  him  to  the  summit. 


Where  to  his  eye  the  fair  horizon  stretches. 
And  every  pro.spect  greatness  can  command, — 
Would  he  now  stop,  let  go  his  fearful  hold. 
And  tumble  from  the  height? 

Fairfax.  I  aim  at  none. 

Damn'd  be  all  greatness  that  depraves  the  heart. 
Or  calls  one  blush  from  honesty — no  more, 
I  shall  grow  warm  to  be  thus  trifled  with: 
Think  better,  Cromwell — I  have  given  my  promise 
That  Charles  shall  live. 

Croviwell.  A  promise  may  be  broke; 

Nay,  start  not  at  it — 'Tis  an  hourly  practice; 
The  trader  breaks  it — yet  is  counted  honest; 
The  courtier  keeps  it  not — yet  keeps  his  honour; 
Husband  and  wife  in  marriage  promise  much. 
Yet  follow  sep'rate  pleasures,  and  are — virtuous. 
The  churchmen  promise  too,  but  wisely,  they 
To  a  long  payment  stretch  the  crafty  bill. 
And  draw  upon  futurity.     A  promise  ! 
'Tis  the  wise  man's  freedom,  and  the  fool's  re- 
straint. 
It  is  the  ship  in  which  the  knave  embarks, 
Who  rigs  it  with  the  tackle  of  his  conscience, 
And  fails  with  every  wind.     Regard  it  not. 

Fairfax.   Can  Cromwell  think  so  basely  as  he 
speaks? 
It  is  impossible;  he  does  but  try 
How  well  fair  speech  becomes  a  vicious  cause, 
But  I  hope  scorns  it  in  the  richest  dress. 
Yet  hear  me  on.     It  is  our  interest  speaks, 
And  bids  us  spare  his  life;  while  that  continues. 
No  other  title  can  annoy  our  cause. 
And  him  we  have  secure;  but  grant  him  dead. 
Another  claim  starts  up,  another  king. 
Out  of  our  reach.     This  bloody  deed  perhaps 
May  rouse  the  princes  of  the  Continent 
(Who  think  their  persons  struck  at  in  this  blow), 
To  shake  the  very  safety  of  our  case. 

Cromivell.  When  you  consult  our  interest  speak 
with  freedom. 
It  is  the  turn  and  point  of  all  design; 
But  take  this  answer,  Fairfax,  in  return : 
Britain,  the  queen  of  isles,  our  fair  possession, 
Secur'd  by  nature,  laughs  at  foreign  force; 
Her  ships  her  bulwark,  and  the  sea  her  dyke, 
Sees  plenty  in  her  lap,  and  braves  the  world; 
Be  therefore  satisfied,  for  Charles  must  die. 

Fairfax.   Wilt  thou  be  heard,    though  at  thy 
utmost  need, 
Who  now  art  deaf  to  mercy  and  to  prayer? 
0  curst  Ambition — thou  devouring  bird, 
How  dost  thou  from  the  field  of  honesty 
Pick  everj-  grain  of  profit  and  delight, 
And  mock  the  reaper.  Virtue  !    Bloody  man  ! 
Know  that  I  still  have  power,  have  still  the  means 
To  make  that  certain  which  I  stoop  to  ask; 
And  fix  myself  against  thy  black  design, 
And  tell  thee  dauntless  that  he  shall  not  die. 

Cromwell.  Will  Fairfax  turn  a  rebel  to  the  cause. 
And  shame  his  glories? 


184 


KANE   O'HARA. 


Fairfax.  I  abjure  the  name; 

I  know  no  rebel  on  the  side  of  virtue. 
This  I  am  sure  of:  he  that  acts  unjustly 
Is  the  worst  rebel  to  himself,  and  though  now 
Ambition's  trumpet  and  the  drum  of  power 
May  drown  the  sound,  yet  conscience  will  one  day 
Speak  loudly  to  him,  and  repeat  that  name. 

Cromivell.   You  talk  as  'twere  a  murder,  not  a 
justice. 
Have  we  not  brought  him  to  an  open  trial? 
Does  not  the  general  cry  pronounce  his  death? 
Come,  Fairfax  dares  not. 

Fair/ax.  By  yon  heaven  I  will: 

I  know  thee  resolute,  but  so  is  Fairfax. 
You  see  my  purpose,  and  shall  find  I  dare. 

[Going. 

Cromivell.   Fairfax,   yet  stay;    I  would  extend 
my  power 
To  its  full  stretch  to  satisfy  your  wish. 
Yet  would  not  have  you  think  that  I  should  grant 
That  to  your  threats  which  I  deny'd  your  pray'r: 
Judge  not  so  meanly  of  yourself  and  me; 
Be  calm  and  hear  me — What  is  human  nature 
AVhen  the  intemperate  heat  of  passion  blinds 
The  eye  of  reason,  and  commits  her  guidance 
To  headlong  rashness?     He  directs  her  steps 
Wide  of  success,  to  error's  pathless  way, 
And  disappointments  wild;  yet  such  we  are. 
So  frail  our  being,  that  our  judgment  reaches 
Scarce  farther  than  our  sight.     Let  us  retire, 
And  in  this  great  affair  entreat  his  aid 
Who  only  can  direct  to  certainty. 
There  is  I  know  not  what  of  good  presage 
That  dawns  within,  and  lights  to  happy  issue. 

Fair/ax.   If  Heav'n  and  you  consider  it  alike, 
It  must  be  happy. 

Cromwell.  An  hour  or  two  of  pray'r 

Will  pull  down  favour  upon  Charles  and  us. 

Fair/ax.    I  am  contented,  but  am  still  resolved 
That   Charles    shall   live.      I    shall   expect  your 

answer 
With  the  impatience  of  desiring  lovers, 


Who  swell  a  moment's  absence  to  an  age.      [Exit. 
Cromwell.   This  was  a  danger  quite  beyond  my 
view, 
Which  only  this  expedient  could  prevent; 
Fairfax  is  weak  in  judgment,  but  so  brave, 
That  set  determination  by  his  side 
And  he  ascends  the  mountain  top  of  peril. 
Now  time  is  gain'd  to  ward  against  his  power, 
Which  quickly  must  be  thought  on.  — To  my  wish. 

Enter  Ireton. 

Ire.  I  but  this  instant  met  the  general,  Fairfax, 
Who  told  me  his  entreaty  had  prevailed 
To  save  the  life  of  Charles:  'Tis  more  than  wonder — 

Cromwell.    Ireton,  thy  presence  never  was  more 
timely; 
I  would  disclose — but  now  each  moment's  loss 
Is  more  than  the  neglect  of  future  years: 
Hie  thee  in  person  to  St.  James's,  Ireton, 
And  warn  the  officer,  whose  charge  leads  forth 
The  king  to  execution,  to  be  sudden, 
Let  him  be  more  than  punctual  to  the  time; 
If  his  respect  to  us  forerun  his  warrant. 
It  shall  win  greatness  for  him;  so  inform  him: — 
That  done,  repair  o'  th'  instant  to  the  army. 
And  see  a  chosen  party  march  directly 
(Such  as  can  well  be  trusted),  post  them,  Ireton, 
Around  the  scaffold;  my  best  kinsman,  fly. 

[Exit  Ireton. 
Why  now,  I  tliink,  I  have  secured  my  point: 
I  set  out  in  the  current  of  the  tide, 
And  not  one  wind  that  blows  around  the  compa.ss 
But  drives  me  to  success.     Ambition  now 
Soars  to  its  darling  height,  and  eagle-like 
Looks  at  the  sun  of  power,  enjoys  its  blaze, 
And  grows  familiar  with  the  brightness;  now  I  see 
Dominion  nigh.     Superiority 
Beckons  and  points  me  to  the  chair  of  state; 
There,   grandeur   robes   me :    now   let   Cromwell 

boast. 
That  he  has  reft  the  crown  from  Charles's  brow, 
To  make  it  blaze  more  awful  on  his  own.      [Exit. 


KANE     O'H  A  R  A. 


Died  1782. 


[Very  little  is  known  of  the  life  of  Kane 
O'Hara,  beyond  that  he  was  a  younger  brother 
of  a  family  moving  in  the  fashionable  world 
of  Dublin.  It  is  generally  supposed  that  he 
was  born  somewhere  between  1715  and  1720, 
but  one  biographer  gives  1743  as  the  date — 
wrongly,  as  we  conclude.  His  manner  and 
style  of  talk  are  said  to  have  been  anything 


but  wliat  is  usually  associated  with  men  of 
wit  and  fancy,  and  to  have  given  little  sign  of 
the  humour  found  in  his  writings.  He  was, 
however,  possessed  of  varied  talent,  and  had 
a  perfect  knowledge  of  music  as  well  as  a 
refined  taste  in  its  application. 

In  January,  1764,  the  first  of  liis  burlesques 
—for  lie  confined  himself  entirely  to  that  kind 


KANE   CyHARA. 


185 


of  writing — was  produced  at  the  Crow  Street 
Theatre  in  Dubliu.  This  was  the  well-known 
Midas,  which  on  the  first  night  appeared  rather 
long  and  tedious,  but  on  being  cut  down  to  its 
present  size  became  a  great  success.  In  Feb- 
ruary it  was  reproduced  at  Covent  Garden 
Theatre,  London,  and  was  repeated  nine  times 
during  the  season. 

In  1773  his  next  work,  The  Golden  Pippin, 
was  produced  at  the  same  house  with  success, 
chiefly  owing  to  the  acting  of  Nan  Catley,  and 
her  singing  of  one  of  its  songs,  "  Push  about 
the  Jorum."  In  1775  appeared  the  Two  Misers, 
and  in  1777,  at  the  Haymarket,  April  Day. 
At  Covent  Garden,  on  the  3d  of  October,  1780, 
that  "  tragedy  of  tragedies,"  Tom  Thumb,  was 
produced,  which  at  first  appeared  without  the 
songs  which  are  now  always  given  with  it. 
The  work  is  founded  on  Fielding's  Tom  Thumb, 
but  is  iu  many  respects  superior.  Mrs.  Pil- 
kington  in  her  Memoirs  declares  that  Dean 
Swift  assured  her  he  had  never  laughed  but 
about  twice  in  his  life,  "once  at  some  trick  by 
a  merry-andrew,  and  the  other  time  at  the  cir- 
cumstance of  Tom  Thumb  killing  the  ghost." 

On  the  17th  of  June,  1782,  less  than  two 
years  after  the  appearance  of  Tom  Thumb, 
O'Hara  died,  leaving  behind  him  a  reputation 
which  to-day  may  possibly  seem  greater  than 
his  works  deserve.  But  such  is  often  the  fate 
of  burlesque  literature, — to  be  over-estimated 
while  fresh,  and  afterwards  to  be  unduly  de- 
preciated.] 


A   MOST   TRAGICAL   TRAGEDY. 

(from    "TOM    THUMB.") 

Enter  King  Arthur,  Queen  Dollalolla,  Prin- 
cess    HUNCAMUNCA,    DoODLE,     PlUMANTE, 

Pkizaletta,  and  Attendants. 

King.  Open  the  prisons,  set  the  wretched  free! 
And  bid  our  treasurer  disburse  five  guineas 
To  pay  their  debts.      Let  our  arch  necromancer, 
Sage  Merlin,  straight  attend  us;  we  the  while 
Will  view  the  triumph  of  our  son-in-law. 

Hunr.   Take  note,  sir,  that  on  this  our  wedding- 
day 
Two  victories  hath  my  gallant  husband  won. 

Enter  Noodle. 

Nood.  Oh!   monstrous,  dreadful,  terrible!  oh, 

oh! 
King.   What  means  the  blockhead? 
Nood.   But  to  grace  my  tale  with  decent  horror; 
Tom  Thumb's  do  more. 


A  huge  red  cow,  larger  than  the  largest  size,  just 

now  i'  th'  open  street. 
Before  my  eyes  devour'd  the  great  Tom  Thumb! 
(A  general  groan. ) 
King.   Shut,  shut  again  the  prisons: 
Let  our  treasurer 

Not  issue  out  three  farthings.     Hang  all  the  cul- 
prits, 
And  bid  the  schoolmasters  whip  all   their  little 
boys. 
Nood.  Her  majesty  the  queen  is  in  a  swoon. 
Queen.  Not  so  much  in  a  swoon,  but  to  have  still 
Strength  to  reward  the  messenger  of  ill. 

(Quern  kills  Noodle.) 
Friz.  My  lover  kill'd!    His  death  1  thus  revenge. 
{Kills  (he  Qtteen. ) 
Hunc.  Kill  my  mamma!  Oh,  baae  assassin!  there! 
(Kills  Frizaletta.) 
Dood.   For  that,  take  this!  (Kills  Hunca.) 

Plum.    And  thou  take  that!  (Kills  Doodle.) 

King.   Die,  murderers  vile!      (Kills  Plumante.) 
Ah!  death  makes  a  feast  to-day. 
And  but  reserves  ourselves  for  his  hon  bouche. 
So,  when  the  boy,  whom  nurse  from  danger  guards, 
Sends  Jack  for  mustard  with  a  pack  of  cards! 
Kings,  queens,  and  knaves,  tip  one  another  down. 
Till  the  whole  pack  lie  scatter'd  and  o'erthrown. 
Thus  all  our  pack  upon  the  floor  is  cast, 
And  my  sole  boast  is,  that  I  will  die  the  last. 
(Stabs  himself.     They  all  lie  on  the  stage  dead. ) 

Merlin  rises. 
( Thunder  and  lightning. ) 
Mer.   Blood!  what  a  scene  of  slaughter's  here! 
I  But  I'll  soon  shift  it,  never  fear. 
Gallants,  behold!  one  touch  of  Merlin's  magic 
Shall  to  gay  comic  change  this  dismal  tragic. 

(  Waves  his  xoand.) 

( The  Cotv  discovered. ) 

First,  at  my  word,  thou  horned  cannibal, 
Return  our  England's  Hannibal.  (  Thunder. ) 

Thumb  is  thrown  out  oj  the  Cows  mouth,  and 
starts  fiercely. 
Next  to  you,  king,  queen,  lords,  and  commons, 
I  issue  my  hell-bilking  summons. 

INC.A.NTATIOX. 

Arise,  ye  groups  of  drunken  sots ; 

Who  deal  out  deaths,  you  know  not  why; 
No  more  of  porter  pots,  or  plots, 

Your  senseless  jealousy  lay  by. 

Your  souls  cannot  as  yet  be  far 

Upon  their  way  to  dreary  night, 
My  power  remands  them. 

( The  dead  all  start  up  as  Merlin  touches  them. ) 

Here  ends  jar, 
Live,  love,  and  all  this  will  be  right. 


186 


THOMAS   LELAND. 


Mer.  Now  love  and  live,  and  live  and  love, 
All.     Sage  Merlin's  in  the  right  on't ; 
Mer.  Each  couple  prove  like  hand  in  glove: 
All.     Agreed. 
Queen.  'Fore  George!  we'll  make  a  night  on't. 

All. 

Let  discord  cease ; 
Let  all  in  peace 
Go  home  and  ki.ss  their  spouses ; 
Join  hat  and  cap 
In  one  loud  clap, 
And  wish  us  crowded  houses. 

[Exeunt. 


PAN'S  SONG  TO  APOLLO. 

(FROM    "MIDAS.") 

A  plague  on  your  pother  about  this  or  that; 
Your  shrieking  or  .squeaking,  a  sharp  or  a  flat; 
I'm  sharp  by  my  bumpers,  you're  a  flat,  master 

Pol; 
So  here  goes  a  set-to  at  toU-de-roU-loll. 

When  Beauty  her  pack  of  poor  lovers  would  hamper! 
And  after  Miss  Will  o'  th'  Wisp  the  fools  scamper; 
Ding  dong,  in  sing  son,<<,  they  the  lady  extol: 
Pray,  what's  all  this  fusa  for,  but — but  toll-de- 
roll-loU. 


Mankind  are  a  medley — a  chance-medley  race; 
All  start  in  full  cry,  to  give  dame  Fortune  chase: 
There's  catch  as  catch  can,  hit  or  miss,  luck  is  all; 
And  luck's  the  best  tune  of  life's  toU-de-roll-loll. 

I've  done,  please  your  worship,  'tis  rather  too  long; 

Midas.   Not  at  all. 

Pan.   I  only  meant — life  is  but  an  old  song: 
The  world's  but  a  tragedy,  comedy,  droll; 
Where  all  act  the  scene  of  toU-de-roU-Ioll. 


PUSH   ABOUT   THE   JORUM. 

(FROM    "THE    GOLDEN   PIPPIN.") 

^Vhen  bickerings  hot 
To  high  words  got. 

Break  out  at  Gamiorum; 
The  flame  to  cool, 
My  golden  rule 

Is — push  about  the  jorum. 
With  fist  on  jug. 
Coifs  who  can  lug, 

Or  show  me  that  glib  speaker, 
Who  her  red  rag 
In  gibe  can  wag. 

With  her  mouth  full  of  liquor. 


THOMAS     LELAND. 


Born  1722  -  Died  1785. 


[Thomas  Leland  was  born  in  Dublin  in  the 
year  1722,  and  wa,s  educated  at  the  school 
of  Dr.  Sheridan,  grandfather  of  the  famous 
Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan.  At  the  age  of 
fifteen  he  entered  Trinity  College,  and  in  his 
nineteenth  year  obtained  a  scholarship.  In 
1745  he  was  unsuccessful  in  an  attempt  to 
procure  a  fellowship,  but  next  year  gained  it 
easily.  In  1748  he  entered  into  holy  orders, 
and  the  same  year  published  the  result  of  his 
anxious  meditation  on  the  duties  of  the  min- 
istry, under  the  title  of  The  Jlel/ps  and  Im- 
pediments to  the  Acquisition  of  Knoxoledge  in 
Religious  and  Moral  Subjects.  This  essay  was 
much  admired  on  its  aj>pearance,  but  it  is 
believed  to  be  not  now  extant. 

Some  time  after  this  he  was  requested  by 
the  university  to  produce  a  new  edition  of 
Demosthenes,  and  in  1 754  the  first  volume  of 
his  celebrated  translation  a])peared.  This  was 
completed   iu  two  more  volumes,  the  hi.st  of 


which  was  issued  in  1770.  This  translation, 
together  with  the  critical  notes  which  accom- 
panied it,  at  once  established  his  reputation  in 
England  as  a  scholar.  It  was  therefore  with 
warm  anticipations  of  success  that  his  Life  and 
Reign  of  Philip  King  of  Macedon  was  received 
in  1 758.  These  were  not  doomed  to  disappoint- 
ment, for  the  work  was  at  once  successful,  and 
contiimes  to  this  day  the  best  on  the  subject. 
In  ]  763  he  was  appointed  professor  of  oratory 
in  Trinity  (College,  and  soon  after  published 
The  Principles  of  Human  Eloquence,  which 
was  fiercely  attacked  by  Warburton  and  Hurd. 
To  them  he  replied  with  great  force,  obtaining 
a  complete  victory  over  both,  as  the  best 
critics  acknowledge. 

After  this,  Leland  turned  his  attention  to 
the  study  of  Irish  history,  and  in  a  compara- 
tively short  time  produced  his  History  of  Ire- 
land, a  work  which  is  written  in  the  best 
historical    manner  and   graced   with   a    pure 


THOMAS   LELA^'D. 


187 


style.  This  work,  though  highly  successful 
from  a  critical  point  of  Nnew,  wa5  too  impartial 
to  be  accepted  by  either  of  the  two  pai-ties  into 
which  Ireland  wa-s  then  divided,  and  the  author 
had  cousequeutly  to  be  content  with  its  praise 
and  purchiise  by  men  of  sense,  a  limited  class 
in  any  nation.  However,  as  years  passed  on 
the  work  grew  in  favour  even  with  parti- 
sans, and  to-day  no  library  devoted  to  Irish 
matters  is  complete  without  it.  The  work  had 
also  a  fair  success  in  England,  where  party 
si)irit  did  not  run  so  high. 

By  this  time  Leland  had  not  only  established 
his  position  as  a  wi*iter,  but  also  as  an  elo- 
quent preacher,  and  when  Viscount  Towns- 
hend  became  lord-lieuten;uit,  in  October,  1767, 
it  was  expected  that  he  would  be  rewarded 
with  some  rich  preferment.  Preferment  did 
indeed  come  to  him,  but  not  such  as  his  friends 
expected.  Eai-ly  in  176S  he  wjis  appointed  to 
the  vicarage  of  Bray  together  with  the  pre- 
bend of  Rathmichael,  and  soon  after  settled 
down  to  pai'ochial  work.  After  passing  a  quiet 
evening  of  life  he  died  in  the  vear  17S5. 


THE    BATTLE    OF    AUe^HKIM. 

(FROM    "THE   HISTORY  OF   IRELAND. ") 

The  fate  of  Ireland  was  now  ready  to  be 
decided.  "S^Tiether  the  English  power  was  to  be 
at  length  uniUterably  established  in  this  har- 
assed country,  or  whether  it  was  to  be  once 
more  exposed  to  the  calamities  of  a  tedious 
intestine  wai-,  seemed  to  depend  on  the  event 
of  a  few  days,  and  the  minds  of  all  men  were 
in  consequence  strained  to  a  painful  pitch  of 
anxiety  and  expectation.  On  the  10th  day 
of  Jime  Ginckle  marched  fi-om  Athlone, 
and  encamped  along  the  river  Sue,  in  the 
county  of  Roscommon,  a  pass  which  the  Irisli 
might  have  maintained  with  advantage;  but 
it  soon  appeared  that  they  had  taken  their  sta- 
tion to  greater  advantage,  about  three  miles 
fm-ther  to  the  south-west.  Their  camp  ex- 
tended more  than  two  miles  along  the  heights 
of  Kilcommeden.  with  a  ri\-ulet  on  theii-  left 
running  between  hills  and  morasses,  and  these 
again  skirted  by  a  hu-ge  bog,  in  breadth  almost 
a  mile ;  on  the  side  of  which  stood  the  ruins 
of  an  old  castle,  called  by  the  name  of  the 
neighbouring  village  Aughrim,  entrenched 
and  occupied  by  infantry,  and  commanding 
the  only  pass  on  that  side  to  the  Irish  camp. 
All  alontr  the  front,  at   a  distance  of  about 


half  a  mile  from  their  encampment,  the  bog 
extended  to  their  right,  where  was  another 
pass  through  a  range  of  small  hills  opening 
into  •vsider  gix)uud.  The  sloi)e  of  Kilcommeden, 
even  to  the  edge  of  the  bog,  was  intei-sected 
by  hedges  and  ditches  communicating  with 
each  other,  and  lined  with  Irish  musketeers. 
Ginckle,  with  18,CMX)  men,  wiis  now  to  attack 
an  enemy  amounting  to  25,CXHi  thus  posted, 
and  who  wanted  only  an  additional  number 
of  cannon  to  take  the  full  advantage  of  their 
situation.  St.  Ruth,  from  his  eminence,  had 
a  fuU  ^-iew  of  the  motions  of  the  English ;  he 
saw  them  cross  the  river  and  prejiare  to  give 
him  battle;  he  drew  out  his  main  ai-my  in 
front  of  his  camp.  He  rode  to  every  squad- 
ron and  battalion;  he  reminded  the  Irish 
officei^s  that  their  future  fortime  depended 
upon  the  issue  of  one  encounter;  that  they 
were  now  to  fight  for  their  honour,  their 
liberty,  and  their  estates ;  that  they  were  now 
to  establish  their  religion,  for  which  he  him- 
self had  displayed  an  extraoixiinaiy  zeal,  on 
such  a  lii-m  basis  as  the  powei"s  of  hell  and 
heresy  should  never  shake ;  that  the  dearest 
interests  :uid  most  honotu'able  engagements  of 
this  life,  and  the  ravishing  prospect  of  eternal 
happiness,  called  for  a  \-igorous  exertion  of 
that  valour  which  their  enemies  affected  to 
deny  them.  The  priests  ran  tlirough  the 
ranks,  labouring  to  inspire  the  soldiei-s  with 
the  same  sentiments :  and,  we  ai-e  told,  obliged 
them  to  swear  on  the  s;icrameut  that  they 
would  not  desert  their  coloui-s. 

On  the  12th  day  of  Jidy  at  noon  (for  the 
fogs  of  the  morning  had  hithei-to  prevented 
them)  the  English  army  advanced  in  as  good 
order  as  their  broken  and  uneven  groiuid 
woidd  permit.  It  was  in  the  first  place  deemed 
necessaiy  to  gain  the  pass  on  the  right  of  the 
enemy.  A  small  pai-ty  of  Danes  sent  to  force 
it,  fled  instantly  at  the  appearance  of  a  still 
smaller  part}'  of  the  enemy.  Some  English 
dragoons  were  next  employed,  were  boldly 
opposed,  were  sustained  by  other  bodies ;  the 
enemy  retreated ;  as  the  assaihuits  pressed 
forward  they  found  themselves  encountei'ed 
by  new  pai'ties,  but  after  an  obstinate  contest 
of  an  hour  they  forced  theii-  way  beyond  the 
bog ;  nor  possibly  was  St.  Ruth  displeased  to 
have  an  opportunity  of  fighting  one  wing  of 
the  English  separately  in  a  place  where,  if 
defeated,  their  retreat  must  prove  fatal.  The 
skirmish  served  to  convince  Ginckle  both  of 
the  spirit  and  of  the  advant;iges  of  the  enemy. 
It  was  now  debated  whether  the  battle  should 
not  be  deferred  to  the  next  moi'uing;  luui,  with 


188 


THOMAS   LELAND. 


difficulty,  resolved  to  prevent  the  enemy  from 
decamping  in  the  night  and  prolonging  the  war, 
by  an  immediate  renewal  of  the  engagement. 
By  the  advice  of  General  Mackay  it  was  re- 
solved to  begin  the  attack  on  the  enemy's 
right  wing,  which  would  oblige  St.  Ruth  to 
draw  off  some  forces  from  his  left,  so  that  the 
passage  by  Aughrim  Castle  would  be  rendered 
less  dangerous  for  the  English  horse,  and  the 
whole  army  be  enabled  to  engage.  About  the 
hour  of  five  in  the  evening  the  left  wing  of 
the  English,  both  horse  and  foot,  advanced 
boldly  against  the  enemy,  who  obstinately 
maintained  their  posts.  The  musketeers,  sup- 
ported by  their  cavalry,  received  and  returned 
the  English  fire,  defending  their  ditches  until 
the  muskets  of  each  side  closed  with  the  other; 
then  retiring  by  their  lines  of  communication, 
flanked  their  assailants,  and  charged  them 
with  double  fury.  The  engagement  was  thus 
continued  for  one  hour  and  a  half,  when  St. 
Ruth,  as  was  foreseen,  found  it  necessary  to 
draw  a  considerable  part  of  the  cavalry  from 
his  left  to  support  his  right  wing.  Mackay 
seized  the  favourable  moment,  and  while  the 
cavalry  were  in  motion  to  gain  the  pass  by 
Aughrim  Castle,  several  regiments  of  infantry 
in  the  centre  were  ordered  to  march  through 
the  bog  extending  along  the  front  and  to  post 
themselves  on  the  lowest  ditches,  until  the 
horse  should  gain  the  passage,  and  wheel  from 
the  right  to  support  their  charge.  The  in- 
fantry plunged  into  the  bog  and  were  instantly 
sunk  to  their  middle  in  mire  and  water ;  they 
floundered  on  unmolested,  but  no  sooner  had 
they  gained  the  opiDosite  side  than  they  re- 
ceived a  furious  fire  from  the  hedges  and 
trenches  occupied  by  the  enemy.  They  ad- 
vanced still  undismayed ;  the  Irish  retired  on 
purpose  to  draw  them  forward;  transported 
with  ardour,  they  forgot  their  orders,  and 
pursued  almost  to  the  main  battle  of  the  Irish. 
Both  horse  and  foot  now  poured  down  upon 
them,  assailed  them  in  front  and  in  flank,  forced 
them  from  their  ground,  drove  some  of  them 
back  into  the  bog,pursued  them  with  slaughter, 
and  took  several  prisoners  of  note  ;  while  St. 
Ruth  exclaimed  in  an  ecstasy  of  joy,  "  Now 
will  I  drive  the  English  to  the  very  walls  of 
Dublin." 

His  attention  was  soon  diverted  to  the 
English  cavalry  on  his  left,  commanded  by 
Talmash,  who,  seeing  the  alarming  disorder  of 
the  centre,  pushed  with  incredible  ardour  close 
by  the  walls  of  the  ca.stle,  through  all  the  fire 
of  the  enemy,  forcing  their  way  through  a 
narrow  and  dangerous  pass,  to  the  amazement 


of  St.  Ruth,  who  asked  what  the  English 
meant?  "To  force  their  way  to  our  left," 
replied  his  officers.  "  They  are  brave  fellows  !" 
said  the  general,  "  it  is  a  i)ity  they  should  be 
so  exposed." 

Mackay,  Talma.sh,  Rouvigny  now  gradually 
pressed  forward  from  the  right,  bearing  down 
all  opposition;  the  infantry  of  the  centre  rallied, 
advanced,  and  regained  their  former  ground  ; 
the  left  wing  fought  bravely  and  was  bravely 
opiJosed.  St.  Ruth  saw  that  the  fortune  of  the 
day  depended  on  making  an  impression  on  the 
enemy's  cavalry  in  their  rapid  progress  from 
the  right.  He  rode  down  from  his  station  on 
the  hill,  and  having  directed  one  of  his  bat- 
teries where  to  point  their  fire,  led  a  body  of 
horse  against  them.  In  this  critical  moment 
a  cannon-ball  deprived  him  of  life.  His  body 
was  conveyed  away,  juid  the  intelligence  of 
his  death  ran  through  the  lines.  His  cavalry 
halted,  and  as  they  had  no  orders,  returned 
toward  their  former  station.  The  Irish  beheld 
this  retreat  with  dismay;  they  were  con- 
founded and  disordered ;  their  disorder  in- 
creased ;  Sarsfield,  upon  whom  the  command 
devolved,  had  been  neglected  by  the  proud 
Frenchman  ever  since  their  altercation  at 
Athlone.  As  the  order  of  battle  had  not  been 
imparted  to  him,  he  could  not  support  the 
dispositions  of  the  late  general.  The  English 
in  the  meantime  pressed  forward,  drove  the 
enemy  to  their  camp,  pursued  their  advantage 
until  the  Irish,  after  an  engagement  supported 
with  the  fairest  prospect  of  success  while  they 
had  a  general  to  direct  their  valour,  fled  pre- 
cipitately,— the  foot  to  a  bog,  the  horse  towards 
Loughrea. 

During  the  heat  of  this  action  some  Danish 
forces  stationed  at  the  extremity  of  the  left 
wing  kept  several  bodies  of  the  enemy  in  awe. 
When  they  perceived  the  advantage  at  length 
gained  by  the  battalion  in  the  centre  they 
charged  their  opponents,  to  prevent  their  fall- 
ing back  to  the  relief  ftf  their  associates.  The 
Irish  received  them  intrepidly,  and  continued 
the  contest  for  some  time ;  but  on  the  general 
rout  of  the  army,  fled  with  their  countrymen. 
In  the  battle  and  in  a  bloody  pursuit  of  three 
miles  7000  of  the  Irish  army  were  slain.  The 
unrelenting  fury  of  the  victors  appeared 
in  the  number  of  their  prisonera,  which 
amounted  only  to  450.  On  their  side  700  fell, 
1000  were  wounded.  All  the  cannon,  ammu- 
nition, tents,  and  baggage  of  the  enemy  were 
taken,  with  a  great  quantity  of  small  arms, 
eleven  standards,  and  thirty -two  colours, 
destined  as  a  j)resent  to  the  queen. 


HENRY   BROOKE. 


189 


HENRY    BROOKE 

Born  1706  — Died  1783. 


[Henry  Brooke,  a  Goldsmith  in  versatility  if 
not  in  genius,  was  born  at  Eaiitavan,  in  tlie 
county  of  Cavan,  in  1706.  His  fatlier,  a  man 
of  talent  and  amiability,  was  rector  of  four 
parishes,  liis  mother  was  a  Digby.  The  rudi- 
ments of  liis  education  he  obtained  from  Dr. 
Sheridan,  and  he  was  sent  for  a  short  time 
to  Trinity  College.  In  his  seventeenth  year  he 
was  entered  at  the  Temple,  and  soon  became 
acquainted  with  every  one  in  London  worth 
knowing,  Pope  and  Swift  being  of  the  num- 
ber. "  Swift  prophesied  wondei's  of  him,"  says 
a  writer  in  The  European  Magazine;  "Pope 
affectionately  loved  him." 

Returning  to  Ireland  he  was  called  to  the 
bar,  though  he  did  not  practise,  and  on  the 
death  of  an  aunt  he  became  guardian  to  her 
only  child,  Catherine  Meares,  a  beautiful  gii'l. 
In  a  short  time  love  sprang  up  between  the 
young  guardian  and  the  still  younger  ward, 
and  the  two  wei'e  secretly  married  while  as 
yet  the  young  lady  was  in  her  fourteenth  year. 
Strange  to  say  the  match  was  a  happy  one, 
and  remained  so  to  the  very  end.  In  1732, 
at  the  pressing  solicitations  of  his  friends,  he 
went  again  to  London,  to  continue  his  studies 
and  enter  regularly  upon  his  profession.  But 
poetry  was  as  fatal  to  him  there  as  love  had 
been  in  Ireland.  Law  was  neglected  for  the 
Muses,  and  in  the  same  year  appeared  his  first 
poem.  Universal  Beauti/,  which  Pope  looked 
upon  as  a  wonderful  first  production.  Soon 
after  he  was  obliged  to  return  to  Ireland,  and 
there  for  some  time  he  devoted  himself  to  his 
profession  as  a  chamber  counsel.  In  1737  he 
went  again  to  London,  where  he  was  received 
with  enthusiasm  by  Pope,  while  Lord  Lyttle- 
ton  sought  his  acquaintance,  and  Mr.  Pitt 
spoke  of  him  and  treated  him  with  affectionate 
friendship.  Before  this  he  had  published 
(in  1738)  a  graceful  and  spirited  translation 
of  the  first  three  books  of  Tasso.  Gustavus 
Vasa  gave  offence  to  the  authorities,  and  its 
production  was  disallowed.  This,  however, 
only  helped  to  add  to  his  fame,  for  his  friends 
rallied  round  him,  the  play  was  printed,  and 
he  sold  5000  copies  at  5s.  each,  his  pecuniary 
reward  being  more  than  it  would  probably 
have  been  had  the  authorities  not  interfered. 


8(jon  aftei'  his  return  to  Ireland  he  received 
tlie  appointment  of  barrack-master  from  Lord 
Chesterfield,  and  while  in  this  post  resumed 
his  pen  to  a  certain  extent.  He  wrote  the 
Farmer's  Letters,  something  after  the  style  of 
the  Drapier  Letters,  and  in  the  same  year 
(1745)  his  tragedy  The  Earl  of  Westmoreland 
appeared.  In  1747  four  fables  by  him  were 
printed  in  Moore's  Fables  for  the  Female  Sex, 
and  in  1748  his  di'amatic  opera  Little  John 
and  the  Giants  was  peiformed  in  Dublin. 
In  1749  his  tragedy  The  Earl  of  Essex  was 
performed  at  Dublin  with  great  success,  and 
also  afterwards  at  Drury  Lane.  After  this 
for  a  long  time  he  remained  in  retirement  at 
his  ancestral  home,  having  clustered  round 
him  not  only  his  own  family,  but  the  almost 
equally  numerous  family  of  his  only  and  be- 
loved brother.  In  1762  he  again  appealed 
before  the  world  with  his  plea  for  the  repeal 
of  the  penal  laws,  under  the  title  of  The  Trial 
of  the  Roman  Catholics.  In  1766  he  issued 
his  first  novel.  The  Fool  of  Quality,  a  woik 
of  unequal  merit,  but  marked  by  wondeiful 
flashes  of  genius  in  the  midst  of  much  that 
is  mystical.  In  1772  his  poem  Redemption 
appeared,  and  in  1774  his  second  novel,  Jidiet 
Greville.  In  1778  a  great  number  of  his 
works  were  published,  most  of  which  had 
evidently  been  written  in  the  ajjparently  blank 
years  of  his  retirement.  These  were:  The  Last 
Speech  of  John  Good;  and  Antony  and  Cleo- 
patra, The  Impostor,  Cymheline,  Montezuma, 
The  Vestal  Virgin,  five  tragedies;  The  Con- 
tending Brothers,  The  Charitable  Association, 
The  Female  Officer,  The  Marriage  Contract, 
four  comedies ;  and  Ruth,  an  oratorio.  Finally, 
in  1779,  appeared  the  Fox  Chase,  a  poem. 
From  the  time  of  his  wife's  death  he  com- 
pletely secluded  himself  from  society,  and 
spent  his  remaining  years  with  his  beloved 
daughter  Charlotte,  who  was  to  render  so 
invaluable  a  service  to  Irish  literatui^e  in  the 
years  to  come.  On  the  10th  October,  1783, 
he  passed  away,  leaving  of  a  numerous  family 
but  two  to  mourn  his  loss. 

As  to  Brooke  as  a  man,  the  writer  in  The 
European  Magazine  says  that  his  "feelings 
were  even  beyond  those  of  female  nature,  soft, 


190 


HENRY   BROOKE. 


and  exquisitely  tender.  His  wife  used  often 
to  conceal  from  him  the  death  of  a  cottager, 
lest  the  grief  of  the  survivors  should  affect 
him  too  much.  His  temper  was  meek  almost 
to  a  fault ;  it  was  nearly  impossible  to  provoke 
him  to  resentment.  .  .  .  Once,  when  asked 
what  he  thought  of  a  humorous  but  false  and 
malicious  liliel,  in  which  he  with  several 
others  was  included,  his  answer  was,  '  Why, 
sir,  I  laughed  at  the  wit  and  smiled  at  the 
malice  of  it.' " 

As  to  his  works,  no  student  of  them  can 
have  any  doubt  that  they  are  not  nearly  so  well 
known  as  they  ought  to  be.  Gustavus  Vasa 
still  keeps  the  stage,  it  is  true,  and  The  Fool  of 
Quality  was  reissued  under  the  editorship  of, 
and  with  a  biographical  preface  by,  the  Rev. 
Charles  Kingsley ;  but  except  Juliet  Greville, 
how  few  of  his  other  works  are  knowji  to  the 
majority  of  readers  even  by  name  !  Yet  they 
are  full  of  splendid  passages,  sutRcient  to  start 
many  a  modern  poet  or  writer  on  the  road 
to  fame.  His  plays,  with  scarce  an  exception, 
are  marked  by  force  and  clearness.  His  poems 
are  not  so  brilliant  as  those  of  Pope,  nor  so 
sweet  in  diction  as  those  of  Goldsmith,  but 
they  are  full  of  solid  beauties  and  just  senti- 
ment. Hoole,  in  his  preface  to  his  own  trans- 
lation of  Tasso,  speaking  of  Brooke's  repro- 
duction of  the  first  three  books,  says,  "Mr. 
Brooke's  in  particular  is  at  once  so  harmonious 
and  so  spirited,  that  I  think  an  entire  trans- 
lation of  Tasso  by  him  would  not  only  have 
x'endered  my  task  unnecessary,  but  have  dis- 
couraged those  from  the  attempt  whose  poetical 
abilities  are  much  superior  to  mine." 

Brooke's  poetical  works  were  collected  by 
his  daughter  Charlotte,  who  added  some  few 
things  not  mentioned  here,  and  published 
them  at  Dublin  in  1792  in  one  volume  8vo.  A 
new  editiou  properly  edited  is  urgently  needed.] 


ESSEX  AND  ELIZABETH.! 

Essex.   Health  to  the  virgin  majesty  of  England ! 
Your  servant,  your  true  soldier, 
Queen  of  monarchs ! 

For  the  first  time  now  trembles  to  approach  you, 
As  being  here  in  conscious  disobedience 
Of  your  dread  orders.     Yet,  when  I  have  shown 
That  'twas  the  last  necessity  compell'd  me 
(Thanks  to  the  artful  malice  of  my  foes) 
To  this  now  seemingly  unduteous  act ; 


1  This  anil  the  next  two  scenes  are  from  The  Earl  of  Essex. 


When  I  liave  shown  that  no  alternative 
Was  left  me,  but  to  seem,  or  disobedient 
Or  bear  a  traitor's  name ;  I  shall  rely 
Upon  your  majesty's  accustomed  grace, 
Weighing  the  jealous  honour  of  the  .soldier, 
To  palliate,  if  not  clear,  the  subject's  fault — 
1  am  charged  with  guilt,  with  being  false,  disloyal, 
False  to  my  queen,  to  England  false — could  Essex 
Bear  such  a  charge,   and  live?     No  —  swift  as 

thought, 
And  bold  as  innocence,  fearless  of  danger. 
Of  death — or  what  is  worse,  his  queen's  displea- 
sure, 
He  comes  to  front  his  foes ;  even  to  the  teeth 
Of  malice  comes  he,  to  assert  his  honour, 
And  claim  due  reparation  of  his  wrongs. 

Queen.  Cecil,  are  those  petitions  answered  yet, 
Which  late  I  gave  in  charge? 

Cecil.  They  are,  an't  please  you. 

Essex.    What,  not  a  word,  a  look? — not  one 
blest  look 
Of  wonted  influence,  whose  kindly  warmth 
Might  chase  these  envious  and  malignant  clouds, 
With  which  your  servant  is  begirt?     Nay,  then  — 
My  night  comes  on  apace — I  see — I  see 
The  birds  of  dark  and  evil  omen  round  me ; 
Cecils  and  Raleighs :  how  they  scent  their  feast — 
Sagacious  ravens,  how  they  snuff  from  far 
The  promised  carcass.     Be  it  so;  for  Essex 
Is  but  the  creature  of  imperial  favour. 
By  his  queen's  voice  exalted  into  greatness. 
And  by  her  breath  reduced  again  to  nothing. 

Queen.     Ha !  that's  mournful 

I  must  not  listen  to  that  well-known  voice; 
I  feel  the  woman  rising  in  my  breast. — 
But  rouse  thee,  queen  of  Britain,  be  thyself! 

[Aside. 
What,  does  the  traitor  still  abide  our  presence? 
All  who  have  truth  or  fealty  to  their  queen 
Forsake  that  faithless  wretch,  and  follow  me. 


ESSEX  AND   NOTTINGHAM. 

The  Countess  op  Nottingham  visits  Essex, 
a  prisoner  in  the  Toiver. 

Essex.   Fair  visitant,  to  whom  may 
Essex  stand  indebted  for  this  grace? 

Nott.   Chiefly,  my  lord. 
To  the  queen's  majesty,  and  some  .small  matter 
To  one,  who,  loving  well,  tho'  most  unhappily. 
Has  not  yet  learned  entirely  to  erase 
The  fond  impression. 

Essex.  Your  reproof  is  gentle — 
Were  Rutland  to  be  born,  I  mu.st  admit 
All  hearts  had  then  been  Nottingham's. 

Nott.   Your  pardon — 
No  more  of  hearts,  I  pray — but  for  your  friendship, 


HENRY   BROOKE. 


191 


I  will  dispute  it  even  with  her  wlio  flaims 
PosrtCrtsioii  of  your  love. — The  queen,  my  lord, 
Commends  the  value  of  her  pity  to  you; 
And  kindly  :usks  if  you  have  aught  to  offer 
In  mitigation  of  your  sentence? 

Essex.   Nothing. 

Kott.  Some  light  exception,  touching  law  or 
form — 
Apparent  malice  in  the  prosecution — 
Error  of  judgment — but  the  slightest  hinge, 
Whereon  to  hang  her  mercy  ? 

Essex.   Not  the  slightest — 
Tell  her,  most  fair  and  charitable  messenger. 
My  course  of  trial  has  been  free  and  equal; 
I  stand  self-censured  in  my  guiltiness: 
And  mercy — what  in  mercy  may  ensue — 
Is  all  her  own,  unpleaded. 

NoU.   How,  my  lord. 
No  more  than  so?  this  cannot,  must  not  be. 
The  appointed  time  is  on  you;  this  short  hour 
May  seal  your  doom — Oh  let  me  beg,  implore  you. 
As  if  for  my  own  life,  to  use  the  means 
Arc  left  you  to  preserve  yourself,  your  friend — 
Say,  have  you  not  a  further  plea? — You  hesitate — 
A  further  cause  for  hope? — You  have,  I  know  it — 
Intrust  me  with  it;  by  yon  heaven  I  swear 
I  will  not  leave  the  queen  till  .she  has  granted 
My  utmost  wish. 

Essex.   I  have  not  merited 
This  kind  concern ;  but  yet  your  generous  warmth 
Demands  my  confidence.     Behold  this  signet ! 
It  is  a  talisman,  and  bears  a  charm, 
By  royal  breath  infused,  of  power  to  save 
Even  from  the  jaws  of  death. 

NoU.   0  let  me  catch  it, 
That  I  may  fly— 

Essex.   Hold,  generous  fair  one  !  first 
Hear  my  request.     Present  this  to  the  queen 
From  dying  Essex.     Say,  her  dying  Essex 
Adjures  her  by  the  virtue  of  this  ring 
To  save  his  friend,  to  spare  Southampton's ^  life. 
And  he  shall  fall  content. 

NoU.   0  stint  not  thus 
The  royal  bounty;  do  not  circumscribe 
The  bounds  of  mercy.     By  the  same  request. 
By  the  same  breath,  a  life  more  precious  far 
May  be  preserved — it  must — it  shall. 

Essex.    I  dare  not 
Urge  such  a  suit.     Yet  if  my  gracious  mistress 
Still  thinks  me  worth  preserving,  I  am  not 
So  weary  of  the  world,  but  I  would  take 
The  boon  with  grateful  heart,  and  live  to  thank  her. 
But  0,  be  sure  you  urge  my  other  suit; 
Save  my  Southampton's  life,  let  him  not  fall 
A  victim  to  my  crimes :  alas !  he  knows 
No  guilt,  but  friendship.    So  may  conscious  peace 
Sweeten  your  days,  and  brighten  your  last  mo- 
ments. [Exit  Essex. 


1  Who  was  implicated  with  him 


NoU.  Now  he  is  mine — at  least  in  death  my  own, 
For  ever  sealed   -tho'  not  for  love's  light  rai)ture, 
For  hatred,  full  as  joyous — deeper  far. 
And  more  enduring!     Now  to  take  him  sudden, 
When  the  full  tide,  returning  frauglit  with  hope, 
Lifts  him  elate,  to  plunge  him  down  at  once 
To  the  eternal  bottom  !     This,  aye  this 
Alone  can  satiate;  'tis  the  luxury 
Of  eager- eyed  revenge.    The  queen — no  matter — 
I  am  prepared.     Be  but  my  vengeance  safe. 
And  for  the  rest,  events  are  equal  all. 


GONE  TO  DEATH. 

Queen.   Is  he  then  gone? — To  death?    Essex  to 
death ! 
And  by  my  order? — now  perhaps — this  moment! — 
Haste,  Nottingham,  despatch — 

NoUingham.   What  would  your  majesty ! 
Queen.   I   know  not   what — I   am  in  horrors, 
Nottingham. 
In  horrors  worse  than  death  ! — Does  he  still  live? 
Run,  bring  me  word — yet  stay — can  you  not  save 

him 
Without  my  bidding?     Read  it  in  my  heart — 
In  my  distraction  read — 0,  sure  the  hand 
That  saved  liim  would  be  as  a  blest  angel's 
Pouring  soft  balm  into  my  rankling  breastr— 

NoU.   If  it  shall  please  your  majesty  to  give 
Express  commands,  I  shall  ol)ey  them  straight  — 
The  world  will  think  it  strange. — But  you  are 
queen. 
Queen.  Hard-hearted  Nottingham  !  to  arm  my 
pride. 

Enter  Rutland,  /rife  of  Essex. 

My  shame,  against  my  mercy. — Ha!  what's  here! 

A  sight  to  strike  resentment  dead,  and  rouse 

Soft  pity  even  in  a  Ijarbarous  breast — 

It  is  the  wife  of  Essex  ! 

Rise,  Rutland,  come  to  thy  repentant  mistress: 

See,  thy  queen  bends  to  take  thee  to  her  bosom 

And  foster  thee  for  ever ! — Rise. 

Rutland.   Which  way  ? 
Do  you  not  see  these  circling  steeps? — 
Not  all  the  fathom  lines  tliat  have  been  loos'd 
To  sound  the  bottom  of  the  faithless  main 
Could  reach  to  draw  me  hence.     Never  was  dug 
A  grave  so  deep  as  mine  ! — Help  me,  kind  friend^ 
Help  me  to  put  these  little  bones  together — 
These  are  my  messengers  to  yonder  world. 
To  seek  for  some  kind  hand  to  drop  me  down 
A  little  charity. 

Queen.   Heart-breaking  sounds ! 

Rut.  These  were  an  infant's  bones — But  hush — 
don't  tell — 
Don't  tell  the  queen — 


192 


HENRY   BROOKE. 


An  unborn  infant's— may  be,  if  'tis  known, 
They'll  say  I  murder'd  it — Indeed  I  did  not — 
It  was  the  axe — how  strange  soe'er  'tis  true ! 
Help  me  to  put  them  right,  and  then  they'll  fly— 
For  they  are  light,  and  not  like  mine,  incumber'd 
With  limbs  of  marble,  and  a  heart  of  lead. 

Queen.  Alas !  her  reason  is  disturbed ;  her  eyes 
Are  wild  and  absent— Do  you  know  me,  Rutland? 
Do  you  not  know  your  queen  ? 

Rutland.   0  yes,  the  queen! — 
They  say  you  have  the  power  of  life  and  death — 

—  Poor  queen ! 
They  flatter  you. — You  can  take  life  away, 
But  can  you  give  it  back?    No,  no,  poor  queen! — 
Look  at  these  eyes — they  are  a  widow's  eyes — 
Do  you  know  that  ?— Perhaps,  indeed,  you'll  say, 
A  widow's  eyes  should  weep,  and  mine  are  dry: 
Tliat's  not  my  fault ;  tears  should  come  from  the 

heart. 
And  mine  is  dead — I  feel  it  cold  within  me. 
Cold  as  a  stone. — But  yet  my  brain  is  hot — 
0  fj-e  upon  this  head,  it  is  stark  naught ! 
Beseech  your  majesty  to  cut  it  off. 
The  bloody  axe  is  ready — say  the  word, 
(For  none  can  cut  off  heads  without  your  leave) 
And  it  is  done — I  humbly  thank  your  highness 
You  look  a  kind  consent.     I'll  but  just  in. 
And  say  a  prayer  or  two. 

From  my  youth  upwards  I  still  said  my  prayers 
Before  I  slept,  and  this  is  my  last  sleep. 
Indeed  'tis  not  through  fear,  nor  to  gain  time — 
Not   your  own  soldier  could  meet   death  more 

bravely; 
Youshall  be  judge  yourself. — Wemust  make  haste; 
I  pray,  be  ready. — If  we  lose  no  time 
I  shall  o'ertake  and  join  him  on  the  way. 
Queen.    Follow  her  close,  allure  her  to  some 
chamber 
Of  privacy ;  there  soothe  her  frenzy,  but 
Take  care  she  go  not  forth.     Heaven  grant  I  may 

not 
Require  such  aid  myself!  for  sure  I  feel 
A  strange  commotion  here. 

Enter  an  Officer. 

Officer.   May  it  please  your  majesty. 
The  Earl,  as  he  address'd  him  to  the  block. 
Requested  but  the  time  to  write  these  lines; 
And  earnestly  conjured  me  to  deliver  them 
Into  your  royal  hands. 

Queen.   Quick. — What  is  here! — Just  heaven! 
Fly,  take  this  signet. 
Stop  execution — fly  with  eagle's  wings — 
What  art  thou  ?     ( )f  this  world  ? 

Nottinijharn.   Ha!  I'm  discovered — 
Then  be  it  so. — Your  majesty  may  spare — 

Queen.    Stop,   stop  her  yell! — Hence  to  some 
duni/eon  hence — 
Deep  sunk  from  day !     In  horrid  silence  there 
Let  conscience  talk  to  thee,  infix  its  stings; 


Awake  remorse  and  desperate  penitence. 
And  from  the  torments  of  thy  conscious  guilt 
May  hell  be  all  thy  refuge  ! 

Enter  Ckcil,  Raleigh,  cjL-c. 

Cecil.  Gracious  madam, 
I  grieve  to  say  your  order  came  too  late; 
We  met  the  messenger  on  our  return 
From  seeing  the  Earl  fall. 

Queen.   O  fatal  sound — 
Ye  bloody  pair !  accurs'd  be  your  ambition. 
For  it  was  cruel. — 

0  Rutland,  sister,  daughter,  fair  forlorn ! 
No  more  thy  queen,  or  mistress,  here  I  vow 
To  be  for  ever  wedded  to  thy  griefs — 
A  faithful  partner,  numbering  sigh  for  sigh. 
And  tear  for  tear;  till  our  sad  pilgrimage 
Shall  bear  us  where  our  Essex  now  looks  down 
With  pity  on  a  toiling  world,  and  sees 
What  trains  of  real  wretchedness  await 
The  dream  of  power  and  emptiness  of  state. 


NATURE'S  SKILL  AND  CARE.* 

With  deepest  art  her  skilful  plan  she  lays. 
With  equal  scale  the  least  advantage  weighs; 
How  apt,  foi'  time,  place,  circumstance,  and  use, 
She  culls  all  means,  that  to  all  ends  conduce! 
Nice  to  a  point,  each  benefit  selects ; 
As  prudent,  every  mischief  she  rejects; 
In  due  proportions,  time,  and  motion,  metes 
Advances  to  a  hair,  and  to  a  hair  retreats: 
Constant  to  good,  for  that  alone  she  veers, 
And  with  the  varying  beam  her  offspring  cheers; 
Cools  all  beneath  her  equinoctial  line. 
And  gives  the  day  throughout  the  world  to  shine; 
The  nitre  from  the  frozen  pole  unseals. 
And  to  the  tropic  speeds  the  pregnant  gales; 
Here  leaves  the  exhausted  fallow  to  recruit, 
Here  plumps  and  burnishes  the  ripening  fruit; 
Superfluous  hence  withdraws  the  sultry  beam. 
Here  drinks  anew  the  vivifying  flame; 
Returns  still  faithful  to  the  labouring  steer- 
Wide  waves  the  harvest  of  the  golden  year; 
Trades  universal  on  from  pole  to  pole, 
Inspires,  revives,  and  cultivates  the  whole; 
Frugal,  where  lack,  supplies  with  what  redounds, 
And  here  bestows  what  noxious  there  abounds; 
This  with  the  gift,  and  that  with  giving,  blest, 
Alike,  throughout,  of  every  wish  possest. 
Wrapt  in  her  airy  car  the  matron  glides, 
And  o'er  the  firmament  ascending  rides; 
The  subtle  mass  its  copious  mantle  spreads; 
Its  mantle  wove  of  elemental  threads. 
The  elastic  flue  of  fluctuating  air, 
Transfused  invisible,  enfolds  the  sphere. 


•  From  the  poem  On  Universal  Beauty. 


FRANCIS   GENTLEMAN. 


193 


With  poignance  delicate  pervades  the  whole, 
Its  ear,  eye,  breath,  and  animating  soul; 
Active,  serene,  coniprcst,  rare,  cool'd  or  warm'd. 
For  life,  healtii,  comfort,  pleasure,  business,  forni'd 
Useful  around,  throughout,  above,  beneath ! 
By  this  the  quadrupeds  the  reptiles  breathe; 
This  gives  the  bloom  of  vegetative  life; 
Corrects  tlie  seeds  of  elemental  strife; 
Broods  o'er  the  eggs,  in  airy  caverns  laid, 
Warmed  in  the  down  of  their  ethereal  bed. 
Gives  motion  to  the  swimmers  of  the  flood; 
Gives  music  to  the  warblers  of  the  wood; 
Rebounds  in  echo  from  the  doubling  vale. 
And  wafts  to  heaven  the  undulating  gale: 
Here  hushed,  translucid,  smiles  the  gentle  calm; 
And  here  impearl'd,  sheds  meek  the  showery  balm; 
Salubrious  here,  a  lively  rapture  claims. 
And  winnows  pure  the  pestilential  steams; 


Here  buoys  the  bird  high  on  the  cr}'stal  wave, 

Whose  level  plumes  the  azure  concave  shave; 

Here  sits  voluptuous  in  the  swelling  sail, 

The  vessel  dancing  to  the  sprightly  gale; 

Its  varied  power  to  various  uses  tends, 

And  qualities  occult  achieve  contrarious  ends; 

With  generative  warmth  fomenting  breed, 

Or  alimental  with  nutrition  feed; 

In  opposition  reconciled  to  good 

Alike  the  menstruum,  as  sustaining  food: 

(,)r  here  restorative,  destructive  here. 

Here  nature's  cradle,  here  her  funeral  bier; 

With  keen  despatch  on  all  corruption  preys. 

And  grateful,  from  our  aching  sense  conveys, 

Returns  the  bane  into  its  native  earth. 

And  there  revives  it  to  a  second  birth, 

Renew'd  and  brightened  like  the  minted  ore. 

To  shoot  again  to  life,  more  gorgeous  than  before ! 


FRANCIS    GENTLEMAN. 


Born  1728  — Died  17f 


[Francis  Gentleman,  who,  like  many  another 
Irishman,  played  the  threefold  part  of  actor, 
author,  and  soldier,  was  born  in  York  Street, 
Dublin,  on  the  23d  of  February,  1728.  His 
father  was  a  major  in  the  ai-my,  and  when  his 
son  reached  fifteen  he  obtained  for  him  a  com- 
mission in  his  own  regiment.  However,  on 
the  regiment  being  reduced  at  the  conclusion 
of  the  war  in  1748,  Francis  left  the  service, 
and,  being  powerfully  drawn  towards  the 
stage,  appeared  at  the  Theatre  Royal,  Dublin, 
in  the  part  of  Aboan  in  Southerne's  play  of 
Oroonoko.  He  was  favourably  received,  though 
possessing  anything  but  a  noble  figure,  his 
good  sense  and  intelligence  probably  making 
up  for  his  deficiency  in  that  respect.  Soon 
after  this  he  went  to  London,  not  to  contimie 
acting,  but  in  the  hope  of  provang  his  claim 
to  some  property  left  by  a  deceased  relative. 
In  this  he  failed,  and  having  spent  all  he 
possessed  was  forced  to  return  to  the  stage. 
For  some  time  he  played  at  Bath,  then  for  a 
time  at  Edinburgh,  and  later  on  at  Manchester 
and  Liverpool.  After  this  he  settled  at  Mal- 
ton  near  York,  where  he  married.  In  1770 
he  returned  once  more  to  the  stage,  being 
engaged  by  Foote  for  the  Haymarket,  where 
he  played  three  seasons.  In  tliis  year  also 
appeared  two  of  his  plays,  The  Stratford  Ju- 
bilee, and  The  Sultan,  or  Love  and  Fame,  his 
Sejanus  having  already  appeared  in  1751.  In 
1771  he  produced  The  Tobacconist,  a  farce; 
Vol.  I. 


in  1772,  Cupid's  Revenge;  in  1773,  The  Pan- 
theonites  and  The  Modish  Wife.  In  this  latter 
year  he  left  the  Haymarket  and  returned  to 
Dublin,  where  for  the  last  six  or  seven  yeai-s 
of  his  life  he  suffered  fi'om  want  and  sickness. 
His  death  took  place  on  the  21st  December, 
1784. 

In  addition  to  the  works  already  named, 
Gentleman  wrote  several  others  which  were 
never  published,  comprising  the  plays  Os- 
man,  1751;  Zaphira,  1754;  Richard  II., 
1754;  The  Mentalist,  1759;  The  Fairy  Court, 
1760;  The  Coxcombs,  1771 ;  and  Orpheus  and 
Eurydice,  1783.  He  also  wrote  and  published 
The  Dramatic  Ceiuor;  Royal  Fables — "poeti- 
cal productions  of  very  considerable  merit;" 
and  Characters,  an  Epistle.  His  best  work  is 
generally  said  to  be  The  Modish  ^yife.'\ 


THE   BIRTHDAY. 

(from   "royal  fables.") 

The  morn  was  come,  the  brilliant  morn 
On  which  fame  said  my  Lord  was  born; 
The  courtly  sun — who  more  polite? — 
Contributed  unusual  light; 
The  vegetable  world  was  seen 
Exhibiting  more  vivid  green; 
The  feathcr'd  songsters  tuned  their  throats 
To  louder  and  more  jocund  notes; 

13 


194 


FRANCIS  GENTLEMAN. 


All  nature  smiled  and  look'd  more  gay 
To  honour  the  auspicious  day; 
Nor  could  she,  reason  must  confess, 
Do  for  a  titled  mortal  less, 
Whom  twenty-one  indulgent  years 
Had  ripen'd  for  the  House  of  Peers. 

At  such  an  era  custom  pays 
A  world  of  compliments  and  praise, 
Mere  phantoms  of  external  show. 
Which  from  the  lip  of  int'rest  flow; 
For,  let  the  self-same  wondrous  man, 
So  worshipp'd  by  a  servile  clan. 
Be  stripp'd  of  titles  and  estate, 
He's  then  no  longer  good  nor  great. 

The  birth-day  levee  now  was  come, 
And,  marshall'd  in  the  drawing-room, 
A  medley  of  most  curious  creatures, 
As  different  in  designs  as  features. 

Here  fawning  priests  with  looks  demure. 
In  hopes  to  get  a  better  cure, 
Appear'd  to  grace  the  friendly  crowd. 
And  very  low,  for  livings,  bow'd. 

On  t'other  side,  the  sons  of  law 
Their  rev'rence  make  with  distant  awe. 
No  counsel  sure  would  ever  grudge 
A  scrape  or  two — to  be  a  judge. 

Ev'n  thy  disciples.  Mars,  beset 
The  youthful  rising  coronet. 

But  where  is  he  the  race  can  shun. 
When  thou,  Preferment,  bid'st  him  run? 
Thy  magic  spur  can  quicken  all 
To  circle  round  this  earthly  ball. 
To  combat  dangers,  cares,  and  strife. 
Nay,  some  to  hazard  fame  with  life. 

Amongst  the  rest  one  suitor  came, 
A  stranger,  scarcely  known  by  name. 
Who,  acting  on  a  different  plan, 
Declared  himself  the  honest  man. 

This  rustic  blade  approached  the  peer, 
"I've  reached,"  he  said,  " my  ninetieth  year, 
Threescore  of  which,  young  lord,  have  I 
Been  tenant  to  your  family. 
Then,  let  me  first  with  kindness  prove 
Your  patronage  and  noble  love; 
Tho'  plain  my  coat,  my  heart,  I  trust, 
Hath  ever  been  in  action  just. 
I  boldly  ask  what  these  conceal, 
And  hope  to  win  what  they  would  steal, 
Your  favour, — not  for  selfish  end. 
But  more  to  show  myself  your  friend. 

"I  ask  not  weallh,  for  common  sense 
Hath  made  me  rich  in  competence; 


I  ask  not  titles,  they  must  shame 
My  humble  parts  and  humble  name. 
But  ask  a  boon  which  you  may  grant. 
Nor  for  another  suit  or  want. 
Age  bows  my  body  to  the  grave, 
Eemaining  time  1  wish  to  save; 
Thus  hasting  off  this  stage  of  strife. 
Will  you  bestow  some  years  of  life?" 

The  youthful  peer,  whose  heart  was  good, 
And  full  as  noble  as  his  blood. 
In  sentiments  as  rank  sublime. 
Perhaps  the  Carlisle  of  his  time — 
Replied,  ' '  I  understand  thee  not ; 
What  power  have  I  to  change  thy  lot 
Of  life  or  death?    Yet  what  is  mine 
I  promise  freely  shall  be  thine. 
I've  heard  thy  worth,  and  dare  afford 
To  bind  it  with  my  solemn  word." 

"0  noble  youth,"  returned  the  sire, 
"May  Heav'n  thy  virtuous  mind  inspire; 
Each  worthy  deed  of  thine  will  be 
A  year  of  added  life  to  me. 
Thus  I  may  ask  without  a  crime 
To  lengthen  out  with  joy  my  time. " 

His  lordship  heard  with  smiling  face. 
Then  rush'd  into  a  kind  embrace. 
And  cried,  "Good  father,  thy  request 
Shall  live  for  ever  in  this  breast. 
And  far  as  mortal  frailty  reaches 
I'll  practise  what  thy  wisdom  teaches; 
Nor  will  I  specious  show  regard, 
But  worth  in  honest  men  reward, 
And  keep  my  favours  there  confined, 
Where  virtues  ornament  the  mind." 

He  said, — the  levee  shrunk  away, 
Like  night  before  the  rising  day. 


TWO   OPPOSITES. 

(FROM    "THE   STRATFORD  JUBILEE.") 

Sir  Joli  11.  Wliat !  no  lottery  gudgeons  in 
this  town? 

Scrapeall.  No,  no,  Sir  John ;  I  could  pick 
up  nothing  but  a  premium  of  ten  shillings  for 
number  forty-five — they  are  all  jubilee  gud- 
geons here.  When  I  asked  a  bookselling 
fellow  who  dabbles  a  little  that  way  whether 
he  wanted  any  tickets,  lie  answered :  Shak- 
speare  is  to  be  crowned  to-morrow ;  and  his 
wife,  before  I  could  open  my  mouth  again, 
said  there  was  to  be  a  masquerade  to-morrow, 
which  everybody  would  be  at.     For  my  part. 


FRANCIS   GENTLEMAN. 


195 


I  tliiiik  tliey  are  all  Shakspeare  m.'ul,  and  1 
wish  we  were  fairly  out  of  the  town. 

Sir  John.  Body  o'  me,  why  so  \  Can't  people 
be  merry  and  wise  ?  For  my  own  part  I  should 
like  to  stay  and  see  the  fun ;  ay,  and  we  will, 
old  True-penny.  When  it  is  over,  I'll  take  you 
to  such  gardens,  groves,  and  purling  streams 
in  Yorkshire  as  shall  make  you  young  again. 

Scrapeall.  With  your  leave,  Sir  John,  I  had 
rather  go  back  to  London.  Pray,  where  can 
you  find  a  garden  of  equal  value  to  that  of 
Covent  Garden  ? — Where  can  you  match  the 
golden  grove  of  Lombard  Street? — Where 
meet  more  delightful  retreats  than  the  arbours 
of  the  Alley  ? — Where  more  comfortable  walks 
than  those  of  the  Exchange,  or  a  stream  equal 
to  the  Thames  between  Bridge  and  Deptford  \ 
Besides,  I  am  very  uneasy  about  my  girl,  she's 
at  the  ticklish  age  of  nineteen,  has  twenty 
thousand  pounds  at  her  own  disposal  when  of 
age,  besides  the  inheritance  of  all  my  estate. 

Sir  John.  What  then,  friend,  touch  and 
take;  ten  to  one,  do  all  you  can,  she'll  please 
herself  at  last,  and  throw  herself  away  upon 
some  poverty-struck  lord,  who,  being  out  at 
elbows,  will  marry  her  money  to  mend  bad 
circumstances ;  then  keep  a  mistress  to  please 
his  inclinations. 

Scrapeall.  Ah !  why  had  not  I  a  son  ?  by 
this  time  he  might  have  been  thoroughly 
educated  in  those  schools  of  useful  knowledge, 
Lloyd's  and  Jonathan's.  I  might  have  lived 
to  see  him  double  my  fortune. 

Sir  John.  Why  then,  old  boy,  since  you 
can't  be  sure  who  will  get  it,  or  how  it  may 
go,  take  my  advice  and  regale  yourself  with  a 
little  of  it  before  you  are  shipped  off  for  the 
other  world.  Now  I  am  here  I'm  resolved  to 
see  what  sort  of  an  affair  this  jubilee  is,  though 
I  suppose  it  won't  be  half  so  good  as  a  country 
feast  or  a  fox-chase. 

Scrapeall.  No,  nor  half  so  fine  as  my  lord- 
mayoi"'s  show,  which  may  be  seen  for  nothing 
into  the  bargain. 

Sir  John.  Nothing !  prithee  don't  grumble 
so  in  the  gizzard — it  is  my  humour  to  see  what 
all  this  bustle's  about,  and  if  you'll  promise  to 
throw  off  your  melancholy  face,  body  o'  me, 
I'll  bring  you  off  scot  free — I'll  pay  for  both ; 
I  have  three  hundred  pounds  a  quarter,  and 
don't  wish  to  save  a  shilling  of  it. 

Scrapeall.  As  you  please,  Sir  John.  {Aside.^ 
What  a  prodigal  old  fool  it  is ! 

Sir  John.  Besides,  man,  I  never  saw  a  coro- 
nation in  my  life,  and,  for  aught  I  know,  the 
crowning  of  King  Shakspeare  may  be  as  pretty 
a  piece  of  diversion  as  the  crowning  of  any 


other  king ;  so  brush  up  your  phiz,  and  we'll 
sally  forth  to  see  what's  stirring. 

Scrapeall.  I  follow,  Sir  John.  I  wish  I 
knew  how  East  India  stock  was  done  to-day, 
and  what  news  there  is  from  the  Nabobs. 

Sir  John  and  Scrapeall  arrive  at  the 
Masquerade  Shop. 

Sir  John.  So  we  have  reached  the  place  at 
last,  and  now  we'll  see  what  they  have  got. 

Scrapeall.  Ay,  ay ;  foolery  enough,  I  war- 
rant. 

Sir  John.  {To  attendant  Sleekem.)  What  are 
all  these? 

Sleekem.  Masks  to  cover  the  faces,  and  mark 
characters. 

Sci-apeall.  Characters  !  I  believe  you  deal 
in  very  suspicious  characters.  Why,  these 
baubles  can  only  be  fit  for  such  as  ai-e,  or 
should  be,  ashamed  to  show  their  faces. 

Sir  John.  Body  o'  me,  here's  one  grins  like 
a  monkey ;  and  there's  so  many,  I  don't  know 
how  to  choose. 

Sleekem.  If  you  please  to  walk  that  way, 
gentlemen,  my  master  will  help  you  to  a 
choice  immediately. 

Sir  John.  Well  said,  lad.  Come,  old  Mul- 
tiplication. 

Scrapeall.  Ah  !  stocks  must  fall  at  this  rate. 

[Exit. 

[Emmeliue,  Scrapeall's  daughter,  whom  he 
had  left  safe  at  home,  has  come  to  the  jubilee 
with  her  maid  Jackonet,  for  the  purpose  of 
meeting  her  lover  Sir  Charles  Planwell,  and 
they  are  now  in  purchasing  dresses  for  the 
masquerade,  intending  after  the  fun  to  fly  to 
Scotland  and  get  married.] 

Sir  Charles.  My  dear  Emmeline,  the  cordial 
punctuality  of  this  meeting  has  confirmed  me 
yours  for  ever. 

Emmeline.  I  assure  you.  Sir  Charles,  Jack- 
onet has  been  an  active  and  steadfast  friend  in 
your  favour. 

>SV;-  Charles.  I  hope  I  have  not  been  un- 
grateful; and  if  she  has  an  inclination  to 
follow  your  example,  madam,  I'll  endeavour  to 
pi'ocure  her  a  good  husband. 

Jackonet.  I  thank  you,  sir ;  but,  according 
to  the  old  proverb,  I  must  please  my  eyes 
though  I  plague  my  heart. 

Sir  Charles.  Then  to  our  business.  Here,  show 
your  book  of  dresses,  young  man.        [Retires. 

Sir  Johx  and  Scrapeall  enter. 

Scrapeall.  Positively,  Sir  John,  I'll  stay  no 
longer.  What !  six  guineas  for  two  dresses 
one  night?     Why,  it  is  absolute  robbery. 


196 


THOMAS   SHERIDAN. 


Einmeline.  (  Who  has  7iot  noticed  he?-  father.) 
I  think,  Sir  Charles,  this  infinitely  pretty. 

Scrapeall.  Bless  me,  what's  this  !  my  Emmy  ? 

Emmeline.  Oh  !  pajja !  what — what  shall  I 
do? 

Scrapeall.  Pretty  !  ay,  it  is  pretty,  hussey, 
to  meet  you  here  without  my  consent,  with- 
out my  knowledge,  without   my Od,  I 

have  lost  all  patience.  And  who  is  this 
fellow?  I'll  make  an  example  of  him  for 
running  away  with  an  heiress. 

Jackonet.  Why,  don't  you  think  she's  able 
and  willing  enough  to  run  away  with  herself, 
sir  % 

Scrapeall.  Is  she  so,  Mrs.  Prate-a-pace  ? 
Ay,  you're  a  hopeful  maid  of  her  aunt's  pro- 
viding. I  know  you  well,  sauce-box,  and  I'll 
turn  over  a  new  leaf.  But  who  ai-e  you,  scape- 
grace? 

Sir  Charles.  I  am  a  gentleman,  sir,  and  not 
used  to  abusive  language.  To  speak  of  my- 
self may  not  be  so  proper,  but  my  father.  Sir 
Robert  Planwell,  was  generally  known  and 
esteemed  in  the  north  of  England. 

Sir  John.  What !  are  you  Bob  Planwell's 
son  of  Lincolnshire?  As  honest  a  fellow, 
cousin  Scrapeall,  as  ever  tossed  off  a  tankard ! 


Scrapeall.  But  did  he  know  anything  of  the 
Alley? 

Sir  Charles.  If  he  did  not,  I  do,  sir ;  I  have 
employed  all  my  spare  cash  these  five  yeai-s  in 
the  stocks.  Why,  sir,  I  have  written  two 
letters,  dated  India,  to  come  overland  by  Hol- 
land, one  of  which  will  raise  that  stock  twenty 
per  cent.,  and  the  other  fall  it  thirty.  Now, 
sir,  if  you  will  countenance  my  pretensions  to 
your  daughter,  I'll  kill  Hyder  Ali,  and  make 
him  conquer  Madras,  as  often  as  you  ])lease  to 
sell  out  or  buy  in. 

Scrapeall.  Nay,  if  that's  the  case,  you  may 
be  a  hopeful  young  fellow :  but  I  hate  a  title. 
However,  if  you  can  make  what  you  say 
appear — 

Sir  Charles.  If  not,  sir,  I  request  no  favour. 

Sir  John.  Why,  that's  honest ;  and  since 
you  have  all  met  together,  I'll  take  care  to 
bring  you  to  a  right  understanding.  I  wear 
a  title  myself,  and  I  am  no  rogue  for  all  that. 
We'll  see  what's  to  be  seen  here,  and  then 
all  for  Yorkshire,  where  we'll  be  as  merry  as 
grigs.  But,  d'ye  hear,  no  more  objections  to 
titles,  for 

Titled  or  plain,  still  judge  upon  this  plan, 
That  the  heart  only  manifests  the  man. 


THOMAS     SHERIDAN. 


Born  1721  —  Died  YJi. 


[Thomas  Sheridan,  son  of  Dr.  Thomas  She- 
ridan the  famous  schoolmaster,  and  husband 
of  Frances  Sheridan  already  noticed  in  this 
volume,  was  born  at  Quilca,  in  the  county  of 
Cavan,  in  1721.  His  earlier  education  was 
conducted  by  his  father,  but  while  yet  young 
he  was  sent  to  Westminster  School,  whei-e  for 
merit  alone  he  was  elected  a  king's  scholar. 
Leaving  Westminster  after  a  time,  he  returned 
to  Dublin,  and  entered  Trinity  College  as  a 
sizar.  In  1738  he  obtained  a  scholarehip,  and 
in  1739  graduated  B.A.  In  1743,  having 
formed  and  abandoned  several  schemes  of  life, 
and  the  death  of  his  father  leaving  him  with- 
out resources,  he  finally  chose  the  stage,  and 
made  his  first  api)earance  on  the  boards  of 
Smock  Alley  Theatre,  Dublin,  in  January  of 
that  year.  In  1744  he  appeared  in  London  at 
Covent  Garden,  and  in  1745  at  Druiy  Lane  in 
company  with  (iariick.  In  1746  he  became 
manager  of  the  Tlieatre  Royal,  Dublin,  whicli 


post  he  occupied  successfully  for  eight  years. 
Though  so  closely  connected  with  the  stage, 
and  though  wielding  a  clever  pen,  Sheridan 
did  not  produce  many  dramatic  works.  They 
comprise:  Captain  C Blunder,  a  farce,  1754; 
Coriolanus,  a  tragedy,  1755;  Royal  Subject, 
an  alteration  from  Beaumont  and  Fletcher; 
and  an  alteration  of  Romeo  and  Juliet.  Of  his 
other  works  the  principal  are  his  Lectures  on 
the  Art  of  Reading;  British  Education;  Ad- 
dress on  the  Stage;  Difficulties  of  English; 
A  General  Dictionary  of  the  English  Language, 
to  which  a  "Rhetorical  Grammar  "was  prefixed; 
Life  of  Swift,  j)refixed  to  an  edition  of  Swift's 
works ;  and  many  miscellaneous  ai'ticles  of  a 
high  order  of  merit  on  the  subjects  of  oratory 
and  education.  All  his  works  show  a  scholarly 
hand,  and  most  of  them  have  been  successful, 
especially  his  dictionary,  which  still  has  a 
phonetic  if  not  a  philological  value.  His 
Lectures  on  the  Art  of  Reading  is  a  book  which 


THOMAS  SHERIDAN. 


197 


may  still  be  studied  witli  advantage,  as  may 
also  one  of  his  siiialler  treatises  on  the  manner 
of  reading  the  liturgy  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land.] 


CAPTAIN   O'BLUNDER:   A  FARCE. 

[Lucy,  and  Betty  her  maid.  Cheatwell,  a 
lover  of  Lucy.  His  meeting  with  the  Irish 
captain,  whom  Lucy's  father  has  desired  her 
to  receive.     Sconce,  Cheatwell's  man.] 

iMcy.  Well,  this  barbarous  will  of  parents 
is  a  great  drawback  on  the  inclinations  of 
young  people. 

Betty.  Indeed,  and  so  it  is,  mem.  For  my 
part  I'm  no  heiress,  and  therefore  at  my  own 
disposal.  .  .  .  But  la !  mem,  I  had  forgot  to 
acquaint  you,  I  verily  believe  that  I  saw  your 
Irish  lover  the  Captain ;  and  I  conceits  it  was 
he  and  no  other,  so  I  do ; — and  I  saw  him  go 
into  the  Blue  Postices,  so  I  did. 

Limj.  My  Irish  lover,  Miss  Pert !  I  never 
so  much  as  saw  his  face  in  all  my  born  days, 
but  I  hear  he's  a  strange  animal  of  a  brute. — 
Pray  had  he  his  wings  on?  I  suppose  they 
saved  him  his  passage. 

Betty.  Oh  !  mem,  you  mistakes  the  Irishmen. 
I  am  told  they  are  as  gentle  as  doves  to  our 
sex,  with  as  much  politeness  and  sincerity  as 
if  born  in  our  own  country. 

Cheatwell  enters. 

Cheatioell.  Miss!  your  most  humble  and 
obedient — I  come  to  acquaint  you  of  our 
danger:  om-  common  enemy  is  just  imported 
hither,  and  is  inquiring  for  yonr  father's  house 
through  every  street. — The  Irish  captain,  in 
sliort,  is  come  to  London.  Such  a  figm-e!  and 
so  attended  by  the  rabble  ! 

Lucy.  I  long  to  see  him ;  and  Irishmen,  I 
hear,  ai-e  not  so  despicable ;  besides,  the  Cap- 
tain may  be  misrepresented.  {Aside.)  Well, 
you  know,  my  father's  design  is  to  have  as 
many  suitors  as  he  can,  in  order  to  have  a 
choice  of  them  all. 

Cheatwell.  I  have  nothing  but  your  profes- 
sions and  your  sincerity  to  depend  upon.  O 
here's  my  trusty  Mercury. 

Sconce  enters. 

Well,  Sconce,  have  you  dogged  the  Captain? 

Sconce.  Yes,  yes,  I  left  him  snug  at  the 
Blue  Pots,  devouring  a  large  dish  of  potatoes 
and  half  a  sirloin  of  beef  for  his  breakfast. 


He's  just  pat  to  our  purpose,  easily  hunmi'd, 
as  simple  and  as  undesigniug  as  we  would  have 
him.     Weil,  and  what  do  you  propose? 

Cheatwell.  Propose,  why  to  drive  him  back 
to  his  native  bogs  as  fast  as  possible. 

Lucy.  Oh  !  Mr.  Cheatwell.  Pray  let's  have 
a  sight  of  the  creature. 

Cheatwell.  Oh!  female  curiosity.  — Why, 
child,  he'd  frighten  thee ;— he's  above  six  feet 
high. 

Sconce.  A  great  huge  back  and  shoulders, 
wears  a  great  long  sword,  which  he  calls  his 
sweetlips. 

Lucy.  I  hear  the  Irisli  are  naturally  brave. 
Sconce.  And  carries  a  large  oaken  cudgel, 
which  he  calls  his  shillela. 

Lucy.  Which  he  can  make  use  of  on  occa- 
sions, I  suppose. 

Sconce.  Add  to  this  a  great  pair-  of  jack- 
boots, a  Cumberland  pinch  to  his  hat,  an  old 

red  coat,  and  a  d d  potato  face. 

Lucy.  He  must  be  worth  seeing  truly. 
Cheatwell.  Well,  my  dear  girl,  be  constant; 
wish  me  success,  for  I  shall  so  humbug,  so 
roast,  and  so  banter  this  same  Irish  captain 
that  he'll  scarce  wish  himself  in  London  again 
these  seven  years  to  come. 

Lucy.  About  it  then.  Adieu  !  I  hear  my 
father. 

[Sconce  manages  to  lodge  the  Irish  captain 
in  a  mad-house,  which  he  introduced  him  to 
as  his  cousin's :  Drs.  Clyster  and  Gallypot  ex- 
amine him.] 

Captain.  Faith,  my  cousin's  house  is  a  brave 
large  place,  tho'  it  is  not  so  very  well  fur- 
nished ;  but  I  suppose  the  maid  was  cleaning 
out  the  rooms.  So,  who  are  these  now  \  some 
acquaintance  of  my  cousin's,  to  be  sure.  Gen- 
tlemen, your  most  humble  servant;  but  where's 
my  cousin? 

Dr.  Clyster.  His  cousin!  What  does  he 
mean  ? 

Dr.  Gallypot.  What  should  a  madman 
mean?  Sir,  we  come  to  treat  you  in  a  regulai- 
manner. 

Captain.  O,  dear  gentlemen,  'tis  too  much 
trouble;  you  need  not  be  over  regular;  a 
single  joint  of  meat  and  a  good  glass  of  ale 
will  be  a  very  good  treat,  without  any  need- 
less expenses. 

Dr.  Clyster.  Do  you  mind  that  symptom — 
the  canine  appetite? 

Captain.  Nine  appetites !  No,  my  jewel,  I 
have  an  appetite  like  other  people ;  a  couple 
of  pounds  will  serve  me  if  I  was  ever  so  hungry. 
What  the  devil  do  they  talk  of  nine  appetites? 


198 


THOMAS   SHEEIDAN. 


do  they  think  I'm  a  cat,  that  have  as  many 
stomachs  as  Hves  1 

Gallypot.  He  looks  a  little  wild,  brother. 

Captain.  What!  are  you  brothers  1 

Chjster.  Pray,  sir,  be  seated ;  we  shall  ex- 
amine methodically  into  the  nature  of  your 
case. 

Captain.  What  the  devil  do  they  mean  by 
taking  me  by  the  wiists?  Maybe  'tis  the 
fashion  of  compliment  in  London. 

Gallypot.  First,  brother,  let  us  examine  the 
symptoms. 

Captain.  By  my  soul,  the  fellows  are  fools  ! 

Clyster.  Pray,  sir,  how  do  you  rest? 

Captain.  In  a  good  feather-bed,  my  jewel, 
and  sometimes  I  take  a  nap  in  au  aim-chair. 

Clyster.  But  do  you  slee^)  sound '] 

Captain.  Faith,  I  sleep  and  snore  all  night, 
and  when  I  awake  in  the  morning  I  find  my- 
self fast  asleep. 

O  ally  pot.  How  do  you  eat,  sir? 
Captain.  With  my  mouth.     How  the  devil 
should  I  eat,  do  you  think  ? 

Gallypot.  Do  you  generally  drink  much? 

Captain.  Oh,  my  jewel,  a  couple  of  quarts 
of  ale  and  porter  wouldn't  choke  me.  But 
what  the  devil  magnifies  so  many  questions 
about  eating  and  drinking?  if  you  have  a 
mind  to  ordei'  anything,  do  it  as  soon  as  you 
can,  for  I  am  almost  famished. 

Clyster.  I  am  for  treating  him  regularly, 
methodically,  and  secundum  artem. 

Captain.  Secundum  artum  !  I  don't  see  any 
sign  of  treating  at  all.  Ara,  my  jewels,  send 
for  a  mutton  chop,  and  don't  trouble  your- 
selves about  my  stomach. 

Clyster.  I  shall  give  you  my  opinion  con- 
cerning this  case,  brother.  Galen  says.  .  .  . 
Galen  is  of  opinion  that  in  all  adust  com- 
plexions— 

Captain.  Well,  and  who  has  a  dusty  com- 
plexion ? 

Clyster.  A  little  patience,  sir. 

Captain.  I  think  I  have  a  great  deal  of 
patience,  that  people  can't  eat  a  morsel  with- 
out so  many  impertinent  questions. 

Clyster. 

Qui  habet  vultum  adustum 
Habet  caninum  gustum. 

Captain.  I'm  sure  'tis  an  ugly  custom  to 
keep  a  man  fasting  so  long,  after  ])retending 
to  treat  him. 

Gallypot.  Ay,  brother,  but  Hippocrates 
ditfers  from  Galen  in  this  case. 


Captain.  Well  but,  my  jewels,  let  there  be 
no  difi"erence  nor  falling  out  between  brothers 
about  me,  for  a  small  matter  will  serve  my 
turn. 

Clyster.  Sir,  you  break  the  thread  of  our 
discourse ;  I  was  observing  that  in  gloomy 
opaque  habits  the  frigidity  of  the  solids 
causes  a  continual  friction  in  the  fluids,  which 
by  being  constantly  impeded  grow  thick  and 
glutinous,  by  which  means  they  cannot  enter 
the  capillary  vessels,  nor  the  other  finer  rami- 
fications of  the  nerves. 

Gallypot.  Then,  brother,  from  your  position 
it  will  be  deducible  that  the  primge  vise  are 
first  to  be  cleared,  which  must  be  efi'ected  by 
frequent  emetics. 

Clyster.  Sudorifics. 

Gallypot.  Cathartics. 

Clyster.  Pneumatics. 

Gallypot.  Restoratives. 

Clyster.  Corrosives. 

Gallypot.  Narcotics. 

Captain.  How  naturally  they  answer  one 
another,  like  the  parish  minister  and  the 
clerk  ;  by  my  soul,  jewels,  this  gibberish  will 
never  fill  a  man's  belly. 

Clyster.  And  thus  to  speak,  summatim  and 
articulatim,  or  categorically  to  recapitulate  the 
several  remedies  in  the  aggregate,  the  emetics 
will  clear  the  first  passages  and  restore  the 
viscera  to  their  pristine  tone,  and  regulate 
their  lost  peristaltic  or  vermicular  motion,  so 
that  from  the  oesophagus  to  the  rectum  I  am 
for  potent  emetics. 

Gallypot.  And  next  for  sudorifics,  as  they 
open  the  pores,  or  rather  the  porous  continuity 
of  the  cutaneous  dermis  and  epidermis,  thence 
to  convey  the  noxious  and  melancholy  humoura 
of  the  blood. 

Clyster.  With  cathartics  to  purge  him. 

Gallypot.   Pneumatics  to  scourge  him. 

Clyster.  Narcotics  to  dose  him. 

Gallypot.  Cephalics  to  pose  him. 

Captain.  These  are  some  of  the  dishes  they 
are  to  treat  me  with.  Why,  my  jewels,  there's 
no  need  for  all  this  cookery ;  upon  my  soul, 
this  is  to  be  a  grand  entertainment.  Well, 
they'll  have  their  own  way. 

Clyster.  Suppose  we  use  phlebotomy,  and 
take  from  him  thirty  ounces  of  blood. 

Captain.  Phlebotomy,  d'ye  say  ? 

Gallypot.  His  eyes  roll,  call  the  keepers. 

[The  keepers  enter  and  strive  to  seize  the 
Ca})tain,  when  he  catches  up  a  chair  and  inishcs 
at  them  like  a  madman.     They  fly  for  their 


GENEEAL  BURGOYNE. 


199 


lives,  and  he,  following  them,  gains  the  street 
in  a  few  niiuutes.  On  reaching  his  lodgings 
he  dresses  and  presents  himself  at  the  house 
of  Mr.  Trader,  Lucy's  father.  He  finds  the 
house  in  confusion,  Mr.  Trader  having  just 
learned  that  he  is  ruined  by  a  failure  in  busi- 
ness.] 

Trader.  O  Captain,  I'm  ruined,  undone — 
broke — 

Captain.  Broke  !  what  have  you  broke  ? 

Trader.  Oh !  sir,  my  fortune's  broke,  I  am 
not  a  penny  above  a  beggar.  ...  So 
now.  Captain,  I  have  not  concealed  my  mis- 
fortune from  you,  you  are  at  liberty  to 
clioose  a  happier  wife,  for  my  poor  child  is 
miserable. 

Captain.  I  thought  your  ribs  was  broke ; 
I'm  no  surgeon  ;  but  if  it  is  only  a  little  money 
that  broke  you,  give  me  this  sweet  lady's  lily- 
white  hand,  and  as  far  as  a  good  estate  in  land 
and  stock  will  go,  I'll  share  it  with  her  and 
with  yourself. 

Cheatwell.  {Enters.)  Gentlemen,  I  beg 
pardon  for  this  intrusion. 

Captain.  Oh  !  by  my  soul  this  is  my  friendly 
cousin^that  bid  the  old  conjurors  phlebotomize 
me. 

Cheatwell.  Sir,  I  beg  your  pardon  in  par- 
ticular, and  I  hope  you'll  grant  me  it ;  nothing 
but  necessity  was  the  cause  of  my  ungenteel 
behaviour.  This  lady  I  had  an  esteem  for; 
but  since  things  have  turned  out  as  they  have, 
my  pretensions  are  without  foundation ;  and 
I,  therefore  {turning  to  Trader),  raised  the 
report  of  your  ships  being  lost  at  sea,  in  hopes 
that  this  gentleman  would  decline  his  ad- 
dresses to  your  daughter  when  he  found  she 
had  no  fortune. 

Captain.  Oagh  !  my  dear,  we  play  no  such 
dirty  tricks  in  our  country. 

Cheatwell.  And  now,  Captain,  I  hope  you'U 
grant  me  your  pardon,  and  look  upon  me  in 


the  light  of  an  unfortunate  rather  than  a  bad 
man. 

Captain.  Faith,  my  dear  cousin,  since  love 
is  the  cause  of  your  mourning,  I  forgive  you 
with  all  my  heart. 

Lncy  {to  the  Captain).  Sir,  your  generous 
behaviour,  so  frankly  shown  on  so  melancholy 
an  accident,  has  entirely  gained  my  heart,  nor 
do  I  value  your  estate  when  set  in  comparison 
with  your  noljle  soul. 

[The  Irish  captain  is  so  delighted  with  the 
turn  affairs  have  taken  that  he  volunteers  a 
song.]     {Sings.) 

THE   BRAVE   IRISHMAN'S  SONG. 

Wherever  I'm  going,  and  all  the  day  long, 
Abroad  and  at  home,  or  alone  m  a  throng, 
I  find  that  my  passion's  so  lively  and  strong, 
That  your  name,  when  I'm  silent,  still  runs  in  my  song. 
Ballynamony,  ho  ro,  &c. 

Since  the  first  time  I  saw  you  I  take  no  repose, 
I  sleep  all  the  day  to  forget  half  my  woes, 
So  strong  is  the  flame  in  my  bosom  that  glows, 
By  St.  Patrick,  I  fear  it  will  burn  through  my  clothes. 
Ballynamony,  ho  ro,  &c. 

By  my  soul,  I'm  afraid  I  shall  die  in  my  grave. 
Unless  you'll  comply,  and  poor  Phelim  will  save ; 
Then  grant  the  petition  your  lo%'er  doth  crave, 
Who  never  was  free  till  you  made  him  your  slave. 
Ballynamony,  ho  ro,  &c. 

On  that  happy  day  when  I  make  you  my  bride, 
With  a  swinging  long  sword  how  I'll  strut  and  I'll 

stride, 
In  a  coach  and  six  horses  with  honey  I'll  ride, 
As  before  you  I  walk  to  the  church  by  your  side. 
Ballynamony,  ho  ro,  kc. 

[The  Captain  and  Lucy  get  married,  and  as 
a  consolation  Cheatwell  marries  the  maid 
Betty,  after  finding  that  she  has  saved  a  nice 
little  fortune.] 


GENERAL     BURGOYNE. 


Born  about  1728  —  Died  1792. 


[John  Burgoyne  is  generally  said  to  have 
been  a  natural  son  of  Lord  Bingley.  He 
served  with  the  16th  Light  Di-agoons  at  Belle 
Isle,  fought  in  an  expedition  against  Spain 
with  credit,  and  wrote  his  first  play  in  1774. 

In  the  following  year  (1775)  he  went  on 


active  service  to  America,  and  in  1777  he  was 
appointed  to  the  command  of  the  force  that 
captured  Ticonderoga,  but  was  ultimately  ob- 
liged to  capitulate  to  General  Gates  at  Sara- 
toga. On  his  return  to  England  he  was  treated 
rather  harshly,  but  he  defended  himself  with 


200 


GENEEAL  BURGOYNE. 


spirit,  and  demanded  a  court-martial,  which 
was  refused.  On  this  he  resigned  all  his  ap- 
pointments, but  when  a  change  of  ministry 
occurred  he  was  made  commander-in-chief  in 
Ireland.  This  post  he  held  for  two  years, 
when  he  resigned  it  and  devoted  himself  en- 
tirely to  literatuie.  He  had  already  produced 
in  1780  the  comic  opera  Lord  of  the  Manor, 
and  now  he  contributed  to  The  Rolliad  the 
"  Ode  to  Dr.  Prettyman  "  and  "  Westminster 
Guide."  In  1786  he  ventured  into  a  new 
field  of  literature,  and,  guided  by  higher  art 
than  hitherto,  produced  21ie  Heiress,  a  comedy 
on  which  his  fame  as  an  author  chiefly  rests. 
This  play,  which  might  have  been  written  by 
Congreve  in  his  best  mood,  was  a  great  suc- 
cess, and  was  soon  followed  by  Richard  Coeur 
de  Lion,  an  operatic  piece  adapted  from  the 
French.  On  the  occasion  of  the  trial  of 
Hastings,  Burgoyne  was  appointed  one  of 
its  managers.  He  did  not  live  to  see  the  end 
of  this  celebrated  trial,  however,  as  he  died 
of  gout  on  the  4th  of  June,  1792,  and  was 
buried  privately  in  a  cloister  of  Westminster 
Abbey. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  had  the  author  of 
The  Heiress  devoted  the  better  days  of  his  life 
instead  of  its  odds  and  ends  to  literature,  he 
would  have  attained  a  high  position.  As  it 
is  he  has  done  enough  to  deserve  a  place  in 
the  rank  and  file  of  the  shining  battalion  of 
men  of  talent.] 


THE   LADY   AND   THE   CYNIC.» 

An  Apartment  in  Sir  Clement  Flint's  House. 

Lady  Emily  Gayville  and  Clifford  dis- 
covered  at  chess.  Sir  Clement  sitting  at 
a  distance,  pretending  to  read  a  parch- 
ment, but  slyly  observing  them. 

Lady  E.  Check !  If  you  do  not  take  care 
you  are  gone  the  next  move. 

Clif.  I  confess.  Lady  Emily,  you  are  on  the 
point  of  comj)lete  victory. 

Lady  E.  Pooh !  I  would  not  give  a  far- 
thing for  victory  without  a  more  spirited  de- 
fence. 

Clif.  Then  you  must  engage  with  those  (if 
those  there  are)  that  do  not  find  you  irre- 
sistible. 

Lady  E.  I  could  find  a  thousand  such ;  but 


»  This  and  the  scene  that  follows  are  from  The  Heiress. 


I'll  engage  with  none  whose  triumph  I  could 
not  submit  to  with  pleasure. 

Sir  C.  {Apart.)  Pretty  significant  on  both 
sides.     I  wonder  how  much  farther  it  will  go. 

Lady  E.  Uncle,  did  you  speak? 

Sir  C.  {Reading  to  himself.)  "  And  the  par- 
ties to  this  indenture  do  further  covenant  and 
agree,  that  all  and  every  the  said  lands,  tene- 
ments, hereditaments — um — um."  How  use- 
ful, sometimes,  is  ambiguity. 

{Loud  enough  to  be  heard.) 

Clif.  A  very  natural  observation  of  Sir  Cle- 
ment's upon  that  long  parchment.  {Pauses 
again  upon  the  chess-board.)  To  what  a  dil- 
emma have  you  reduced  me.  Lady  Emily  !  If 
I  advance,  I  perish  by  my  temerity,  and  it  is 
out  of  my  power  to  retreat. 

Sir  C.  {Apart.)  Better  and  better !  To  talk 
in  cipher  is  a  curious  faculty. 

Clif  Sir! 

Sir  C.  {Still  reading.)  "  In  witness  whereof, 
the  said  parties  have  hei'eunto,  interchangeably, 
set  their  hands  and  seals,  this — um — um — um 
— day  of — um — um — " 

Lady  E.  Come,  I  trifle  with  you  too  long. 
There's  your  coup  de  grace.  Uncle,  I  have 
conquered.  {Both  rise  from  the  table.) 

Sir  C.  Niece,  I  do  not  doubt  it ;  and  in  the 
style  of  the  gi-eat  proficients,  without  looking 
upon  the  board.  Clifford,  was  not  your  mother's 
name  Charlton?  {Rises.) 

Clif.  It  was,  sir. 

Sir  C.  In  looking  over  the  writings  Alscrip 
has  sent  me,  preparatory  to  his  daughter's 
settlement,  I  find  mention  of  a  conveyance  from 
a  Sir  William  Chax-lton,  of  Devonshire.  Was 
he  a  relation? 

Clif  My  grandfather,  sir.  The  plunder  of 
his  fortune  was  one  of  the  first  materials  for 
raising  that  of  Mr.  Alscrip,  who  was  steward 
to  Sir  William's  estate,  then  manager  of  his 
difficulties,  and,  lastly,  his  sole  creditor. 

Sir  C.  And  no  better  monopoly  than  that 
of  a  needy  man's  distresses.  Alscrip  has  had 
twenty  such,  or  I  should  not  have  singled  out 
his  daughter  to  be  Lord  Gayville's  wife. 

Clif.  It  is  a  compensation  for  my  family 
losses  that,  in  the  event,  they  will  conduce  to 
the  interest  of  the  man  I  most  love. 

Sir  C.  Heyday !  Clifford,  take  care,  don't 
trench  upon  the  blandish  ;  your  cue,  you  know, 
is  sincerity. 

Clif.  You  seem  to  think,  sir,  there  is  no 
such  quality.  I  doubt  whether  you  believe 
there  is  an  honest  man  in  the  world. 

Sir  C.  You  do  me  great  injustice ;  several, 
several;    and    uj)on    the   old    principle,    that 


GENERAL  BURGOYNE. 


201 


"honesty  is  the  best  policy."  Self-iuteiest  is 
the  great  end  of  life,  says  human  nature. 
Honesty  is  a  better  agent  than  craft,  says  the 
proverb. 

Clif.  But,  as  for  ingenuous,  or  i)urely  dis- 
interested motives — 

Sir  C.  Clitford,  do  you  mean  to  laugh  at 
me? 

Clif.  What  is  your  opinion.  Lady  Emily? 

Lady  E.  That  there  may  be  such,  but  it's 
odds  they  are  troublesome  or  insipid.  Pure 
ingenuousness,  I  take  it,  is  a  rugged  sort  of 
thing,  which  scarcely  will  bear  the  polish  of 
common  civility;  and  for  disinterestedness, 
young  people  sometimes  set  out  with  it;  but 
it  is  like  travelling  upon  a  broken  spring,  one 
is  glad  to  get  it  mended  at  the  next  stage. 

Sir  C.  Emily,  I  protest,  you  seem  to  study 
after  me;  proceed,  child,  and  we  will  read 
together  every  character  that  comes  in  our 
way. 

Lady  E.  Read  one's  acquaintance,  delight- 
ful !  What  romances,  novels,  satires,  and 
mock  heroics  present  themselves  to  my  im- 
agination !  Our  young  men  are  flimsy  essays; 
old  ones,  political  pamphlets ;  coquettes,  fugi- 
tive pieces ;  and  fashionable  beauties,  a  com- 
pilation of  advertised  perfumery,  essence  of 
peai'l,  milk  of  roses,  and  Olympian  dew. 
Lord,  I  should  now  and  then,  though,  turn 
over  an  acquaintance  with  a  sort  of  fear  and 
trembling. 

Clif.  How  so? 

Lady  E.  Lest  one  should  pop,  unawares, 
upon  something  one  should  not,  like  a  naughty 
speech  in  an  old  comedy ;  but  it  is  only  skip- 
ping what  would  make  one  blush. 

Sir  C.  Or  if  you  did  not  skip,  when  a  wo- 
man reads  by  herself,  and  to  herself,  there  are 
wicked  philosophers  who  doubt  whether  her 
blushes  are  very  troublesome. 


AN  OLD  RASCAL. 

Alscrip's  Room  of  Business. 
Alscrip  and  Rightly  discovered. 

Right.  Upon  all  these  matters,  Mr.  Alscrip, 
I  am  authorized  by  my  client.  Sir  Clement 
Flint,  to  agree.  There  remains  nothing  but 
your  favouring  me  with  the  inspection  of  the 
Chai-lton  title-deeds,  and  your  daughter's 
settlements  may  be  engrossed. 

Als.  I  cannot  conceive,  my  friend  Rightly, 


any  such  inspection  to  be  requisite.  Have  not 
I  been  in  constant,  quiet  possession  ? 

Right.  Sir  Clement  insists  upon  it. 

Als.  A  client  insist !  And  you,  an  old  prac- 
titioner, suffer  such  a  demur  to  your  inf;dli- 
bility !  Ah !  in  my  practice  I  had  the  sure 
means  of  disap{>ointing  such  dabblers  and 
divers  into  their  own  cases. 

Right.  How,  pray? 

Als.  I  read  his  writings  to  him  myself.  I 
was  the  best  reader  in  Chancery  Lane  for  set- 
ting the  understanding  at  ilefiance.  Drew 
breath  but  once  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  always 
in  the  wrong  place,  and  made  a  single  sentence 
of  six  skins  of  parchment.  Shall  I  give  you  a 
specimen  ? 

Right.  I  have  no  doubt  of  your  talent. 

Als.  Then  return  to  Sir  Clement  and  follow 
my  example. 

Right.  No,  Mr.  Alscrip;  though  I  acknow- 
ledge your  skill  I  do  not  subscribe  to  your 
doctrine.  The  English  law  is  the  finest  system 
of  ethics,  as  well  as  government,  that  ever  the 
world  produced,  and  it  cannot  be  too  generally 
understood. 

Als.  Law  understood  !  Zounds  !  would  you 
destroy  the  profession? 

Right.  No,  I  would  raise  it.  Had  every 
man  of  sense  the  knowledge  of  the  theory,  to 
which  he  is  competent,  the  practice  would 
revert  to  the  purity  of  its  institution ;  main- 
tain the  rights,  and  not  promote  the  knavery 
of  mankind. 

Als.  (Aside.)  Plaguy  odd  maxims !  Sure,  he 
means  to  try  me.  Brother  Rightly,  we  know 
the  world,  and  are  alone.  I  have  locked  the 
door.  (Li  a  half  whisper.) 

Right.  A  very  useless  precaution.  I  have 
not  a  principle  nor  a  proceeding  that  I  would 
not  proclaim  at  Charing  Cross. 

Als.  (Aside.)  No!  Then  I'll  pronounce  you 
the  most  silly  or  the  most  impudent  fellow  of 
the  fraternity. 

Right.  But  where  are  these  writings  ?  You 
can  have  no  difficulty  in  laying  your  hand 
upon  them,  for  I  perceive  you  keep  things  in 
a  distinguished  regularity. 

Als.  Yes;  I  have  distinct  repositories  for 
all  papers,  and  especially  title-deeds.  Some 
in  drawers,  some  in  closets — (aside) — and  a 
few  undergi-ound. 

Miss  Als.  (Rattling  at  the  door.)  What  makes 
you  lock  the  door,  sir?  I  must  speak  to  you 
this  instant. 

Als.  One  moment,  child,  and  I'll  be  ready 
for  you.  (Turning  again  to  Rightly,  as  to 

dissiuzde  him.) 


202 


GENERAL   BUEGOYNE. 


Right.  If  the  thoughts  of  the  wedding-day 
make  any  part  of  the  young  lady's  impatience, 
you  take  a  bad  way,  Mr.  Alscrip,  to  satisfy  it; 
for  I  tell  you  plainly,  our  business  cannot  be 
completed  till  I  see  these  writings. 

Als.  (Aside.)  Confound  the  old  hound,  how 
he  sticks  to  his  scent!  (Miss  Alscrip  still  at 
the  door.)  I  am  coming,  I  tell  you.  (Opens  a 
bureau  in  a  confused  hurry,  shuffles  papers 
about,  and  puts  one  into  Rightly's  hand.) 
There,  if  this  whim  must  be  indulged,  step 
into  the  next  room.  You,  who  know  the  ma- 
terial parts  of  a  parchment  lie  in  a  nut-shell, 
will  look  over  it  in  ten  minutes. 

(Puts  Rightly  into  another  room.) 

Miss  Als.  ( Without.)  I  won't  wait  another 
instant,  whatever  you  are  about.      Let  me  in. 

Als.  (Opening  the  door.)  Sex  and  vehemence ! 
What  is  the  matter  now? 

Enter  Miss  Alscrip,  in  the  most  violent 
emotion. 

Miss  Als.  So,  sir — yes,  sir— you  have  done 
finely  by  me,  indeed ;  you  are  a  pattern  for 
fathers.     A  precious  match  you  had  provided ! 

Als.  What  the  devil's  the  matter? 

Miss  Als.  (Running  on.)  I,  that  wdth  fifty 
thousand  independent  pounds  left  myself  in 
a  father's  hands — a  thing  unheard-of — and 
waited  for  a  husband  with  unparalleled 
patience  till  I  was  of  age. 

Als.  What  the  devil's  the  matter? 

Miss  Als.  (Following  him  about.)  I,  that  at 
fourteen  might  have  married  a  French  mar- 
quis— my  governess  told  me  he  was,  for  all  he 
was  her  brother. 

^^5.  Gad-a-mercy!     Governess? 

Miss  Als.  And  as  for  commoners,  had  not  I 
the  choice  of  the  market?  And  the  handsome 
Irish  colonel  at  Bath,  that  had  carried  off  six 
heiresses  before,  for  himself  and  friends,  and 
would  have  found  his  way  to  Gretna  Green 
blindfolded  ? 

Als.  (Aside.)  'Gad !  I  wish  you  were  there 
now,  with  all  my  heart.  What  the  devil  is  at 
the  bottom  of  all  this? 

J/ws  Als.  Why,  Lord  Gayville  is  at  the 
bottom;  and  your  hussy,  that  you  was  so  sweet 
upon  this  moining,  is  at  the  bottom,  a  trea- 
cherous minx !  I  sent  her,  only  for  a  little 
innocent  diversion,  as  my  double — 

Ah.  Your  wliat? 

Miss  Als.  Why,  my  double ;  to  vex  him. 

Als.  Double!  This  is  the  most  useless  attend- 
ant you  liave  liad  yet.  'Gad !  I'll  start  you 
single-handed  in  the  art  of  vexation  against 
any  te)i  women  in  England. 


3Iiss  Als.  I  caught  them,  just  aa  I  did  you 
with  your — 

Als.  Is  that  all?  'Gad!  I  don't  see  much 
in  that. 

3Iiss  Als.  Not  much?  What,  a  woman  of 
my  fortune  and  accomplishments  turned  off — 
rejected — renounced ! 

Als.  Renounced?  Has  he  broke  the  con- 
tract ?  Will  you  jjrove  he  has  broken  the  con- 
tract ? 

Miss  Als.  Ay,  now,  my  dear  papa,  you  take 
a  tone  that  becomes  you;  now  the  blood  of 
the  Alscrip  rises;  rises  as  it  ought.  You  mean 
to  fight  him  directly,  don't  you. 

Als.  Oh,  yes !  I'm  his  man.  I'll  show  you 
a  lawyer's  challenge :  sticks  and  staves,  guns, 
swords,  daggers,  poniards,  knives,  scissors,  and 
bodkins.  I'll  put  more  weapons  into  a  bit  of 
paper  six  inches  square  than  would  stock  the 
armoury  of  the  Tower. 

Miss  A  Is.  Pistols !  don't  talk  to  me  of  any- 
thing but  pistols.  My  dear  papa,  who  shall 
be  your  second  ? 

Als.  I'll  have  two ;  John  Doe  and  Richard 
Roe — as  pretty  fellows  as  any  in  England,  to 
see  fair  play,  and  as  used  to  the  differences  of 
good  company.  They  shall  greet  him  with 
their  Ji  ere  facias;  so  don't  be  cast  down,  Molly; 
I'll  answer  for  damages  to  indemnify  our  loss 
of  temper  and  reputation.  He  shall  have  a 
fi-fa  before  to-morrow  night. 

Miss  Als.  Fiery  faces  and  damages!  "VSTiat 
does  your  Westminster  Hall  gibberish  mean? 
Are  a  woman's  feelings  to  be  satisfied  with  a 
fie-fa?  You  old  insensible  !  you  have  no  sense 
of  family  honour — no  tender  affections. 

Als.  'Gad !  you  have  enough  for  us  both, 
when  you  want  your  father  to  be  shot  through 
the  head; — but  stand  out  of  the  way,  here's  a 
species  of  family  honour  more  necessary  to  be 
taken  care  of.  If  we  were  to  go  to  law,  this 
would  be  a  precious  set-off  against  us.  (Takes 
up  the  deed,  as  if  to  lock  it  up.)  This ! — why, 
what  the  devil ! — I  hope  I  don't  see  clear. 
Curse  and  confusion  !  I  have  given  the  wi-ong 
one.  Here's  fine  work !  here's  a  blunder ! 
here's  the  effect  of  a  woman's  impetuosity ! 

Miss  Als.  Lord !  what  a  fuss  you  are  in ! 
what  is  in  the  old  trumpery  scroll ! 

Als.  Plague  and  parchment!  old  Rightly 
will  find  what's  in  it,  if  I  don't  inten-upt  him. 
Mr.  Rightly,  Mr.  Rightly,  Mr.  Rightly ! 

(Going  to  the  door  Rightly  went  out  at.) 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Ser.  Sir,  Mr.  Rightly  is  gone. 
Als.  Gone  !  whither? 


GENERAL   BURGOYNE. 


203 


Ser.  Home,  I  believe,  sir.  He  came  out  at 
the  door  into  the  hall,  and  he  bade  me  tell 
your  honour  you  might  depend  upon  his  read- 
ing over  the  deed  witli  jiarticular  care. 

Als.  Fire  and  fury  !  my  hat  and  cane.  [Exit 
/Ser.]     Here,  my  hat  and  cane. 

Miss  Als.  Sir,  I  expect,  before  you  come 
home — 

Als.  Death  and  devils  !  expect  to  be  ruined. 
This  comes  of  listening  to  you.  The  sex  hold 
the  power  of  mischief  by  prescription.  Zounds  1 
Mischief  —  mischief  is  the  common  law  of 
woman-kind.  \_Exeunt. 

[And  mischief  was  done,  too,  from  Alscrip's 
point  of  view,  for  in  his  confusion  he  had 
handed  Mr.  Rightly  the  wrong  paper,  which 
l>roved  what  his  employer  Sir  Clement  Flint 
had  suspected,  that  pai't  of  the  fortune  which 
belonged  to  Clitford  by  right  was  held  by 
Alscrip  wrongfully.  Of  course  the  fortune 
was  restored,  and  Lady  Emily  and  Clifford 
married.] 


KUEAL   SIMPLICITY. 

(from  "the  maid  of  the  oaks.") 

[Dupely  invited  to  the  fete-champetre  by 
his  friend  Sir  Harry  Groveby,  who  is  about  to 
be  married.  Lady  Bab  Lardoon,  a  woman  of 
fashion,  determines  to  fool  Dupely,  who  has 
just  returned  from  abroad.  For  this  purpose 
in  her  fete  dress  as  a  shepherdess  she  wanders 
in  the  garden.] 

A  Flower-garden. 

Enter  Lady  Bab  Lardoon,  dressed  as  a  shep- 
herdess, Oldworth  folloiving. 

Old.  Hist,  hist !  Lady  Bab !  Here  comes 
your  prize ;  for  the  sake  of  mirth,  and  the 
revenge  of  your  sex,  don't  miss  the  oppor- 
tunity. 

Lady  B.  Not  for  the  world  ;  you  see,  I  am 
dressed  for  the  purpose.  Step  behind  that 
stump  of  shrubs,  and  you  shall  see  what  an 
excellent  actress  I  should  have  made.  Away, 
away  !  [Exit  Oldworth,  Lady  B.  retires. 

Enter  Dupely. 

Diipe.  Where  the  devil  is  Sir  Harry?  This 
is  certainly  the  place  where  I  was  appointed 
to  find  him ;  but  I  suppose  I  shall  spring  him 
and  his  bride  from  under  a  rose-bush  by-and- 
by,  like  two  pheasants  in  pairing  time.     {Oh- 


'  serving  Lady  B.)  Ha  !  Ls  that  a  dress  for  the 
day,  or  is  she  one  of  the  natives  of  this  ex- 
traordinary region  \  Oh,  I  see  now,  it  is  all 
pure  Arcadian ;  her  eyes  have  been  used  to 
nothing  but  daisy-hunting  ; — but  what  a  neck 
she  has  !  How  beautifully  nature  works  when 
she  is  not  spoiled  by  a  d d  town  stay- 
maker  !  What  a  pity  she  is  so  awkward !  I 
hope  she  is  not  foolish. 

{During  this  observation  he  keeps  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  her;  Lady  B.  looks  first  at 
him,  then  at  herself;  unpins  her  nosegay, 
and,  loith  an  air  of  naivete,  presents  it 
to  him.) 

Lady  B.  You  seem  to  wish  for  my  nosegay, 
sir ;  it  is  much  at  your  service. 

{Offers  thefiowers,  and  curtseys  awkwardly.) 

Dupe.  Oh !  the  charming  innocent  !  A 
thousand  thanks,  my  fair  one ;  I  accept  it  as 
a  faint  image  of  your  own  sweets.  To  whom 
am  I  so  much  obliged? 

Lady  B.  To  the  garden-man,  to  be  sure ;  he 
has  made  flowers  to  grow  all  over  the  garden, 
and  they  smell  so  sweet ! — pray  smell  'em ; 
they  are  charming  sweet,  I  assure  you,  and 
have  such  fine  colours !  La !  you  are  a  fine 
nosegay  yourself,  I  think. 

{Simpers,  and  looks  at  him.) 

Dupe.  Exquisite  simplicity !  {Aside.)  Ah  I 
I  knew  at  firet  glance  you  were  a  compound 
of  innocence  and  sensibility. 

Lady  B.  Lack-a-daisy  heart !  How  could 
you  hit  upon  my  temper  so  exactly? 

Dupe.  By  a  certain  instinct  I  have;  fori 
have  seen  few  or  none  of  the  sort  before. 
But,  my  dear  girl,  what  is  youi-  name  and 
situation  ? 

Lady  B.  Situation ! 

Dupe.  Ay — what  are  you? 

Lady  B.  I  am  a  bridemaid. 

Dupe.  But  when  you  are  not  a  bridemaid, 
what  is  your  way  of  life?  How  do  you  pass 
your  time? 

Lady  B.  I  rise  with  the  lark,  keep  my  hands 
always  employed,  dance  upon  a  holiday,  and 
eat  brown  bread  with  content. 

Dupe.  Oh,  the  delicious  description  ! — beech- 
en  shades,  bleating  flocks,  and  pipes  and 
pastorals.  What  an  acquisition  to  my  fame, 
as  well  as  pleasure,  to  carry  off"  this  quint- 
essence of  champetre!     I'll  do  it.  {Aside.) 

Lady  B.  {Examines  him.)  And,  pray,  what 
may  you  be?  for  I  never  saw  anythmg  so  out 
of  the  way  in  all  my  life — He,  he,  he ! 

{Simperiyig.) 

Dupe.  I,  my  dear?  I  am  a  gentleman. 

Lady  B.    What  a  fine  gentleman  !      Bless 


204 


GENERAL   BURGOYNE, 


me .'  what  a  thing  it  is !  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  I  never 
saw  anything  so  comical  in  all  my  life.  Ha, 
ha,  ha  !  And  this  is  a  fine  gentleman,  of  which 
I  have  heard  so  much. 

Dupe.  What  is  tlie  matter,  my  dear?  Is 
there  anything  ridiculous  about  me,  that  makes 
you  laugh  ?  What  have  you  heard  of  fine 
gentlemen,  my  sweet  innocence? 

Lady  B.  That  they  are  as  gaudy  as  pea- 
cocks, as  mischievous  as  jays,  as  chattering  as 
magpies,  as  wild  as  hawks. 

Dupe.  And  as  loving  as  sparrows. 

Lady  B.  I  know  you  are  very  loving — of 
yourselves.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  You  are  a  sort  of 
birds  that  flock  but  never  pair. 

Dupe.  Why,  you  are  satirical,  my  fairest; 
and  have  you  heard  anything  else  of  fine 
gentlemen  ? 

Lady  B.  Yes,  a  great  deal  more ;  that  they 
take  wives  for  fortunes,  and  mistresses  for 
show;  squander  their  money  among  tailors, 
barbers,  cooks, and  fiddlers;  pawn  their  honour 
to  sharpers  and  their  estates  to  Jews  ;  and,  at 
last,  run  to  foreign  countries  to  repair  a  pale 
face,  a  flimsy  carcass,  and  an  empty  pocket : — 
that's  a  fine  gentleman  for  you  ! 

Dupe.  Pray,  my  dear,  what  is  really  your 
name  ?  {Surprised. ) 

Lady  B.  My  name  is  Philly. 

{Resuming  her  simplicity.) 

Dupe.  Philly ! 

Lady  B.  Philly  Nettletop,  of  the  vale. 

Dupe.  And  pray,  my  sweet  Philly,  where 
did  you  learn  this  character  of  a  fine  gentle- 
man? 

Lady  B.  Oh  !  I  learnt  it  with  my  catechism. 
Mr.  Oldworth  has  taught  it  to  all  the  young 
maidens  hereabout. 

Dupe.  So  it  is  from  Mr.  Oldworth,  is  it,  my 
charming  innocence,  that  you  have  learnt  to 
be  so  afraid  of  fine  gentlemen? 

{Significantly.) 

Lady  B.  No,  not  at  all  afraid ;  I  believe 
you  are  perfectly  harmless  if  one  treats  you 
right,  as  I  do  our  young  mastifl"  at  home. 

Dupe.  And  how  is  that,  pray? 

Lady  B.  Why,  while  one  keeps  at  a  dis- 
tance he  frisks,  and  he  flies,  and  he  barks, 
and  tears,  and  grumbles,  and  makes  a  sad  rout 
about  it.  Lord  !  you'd  think  he  would  devour 
one  at  a  mouthful ;  but  if  one  does  but  walk 
boldly  up  and  look  him  in  the  face,  and  ask 
him  what  he  wants,  he  dro]>s  his  eai'S  and  runs 
away  directly. 

Dupe.  Well  said,  rural  Rim])Iicity,  again. 
Well,  but,  my  dear  heavenly  creature,  don't 
commit  such  a  sin  as  to  waste  your  youth  and 


your  charms  upon  a  set  of  rustics  here.  Fly 
with  me  to  the  true  region  of  pleasure.  My 
chaise  and  four  shall  be  ready  at  the  back  gate 
of  the  park,  and  we  will  take  the  opportunity, 
when  all  the  servants  are  drank,  as  they  cer- 
tainly will  be,  and  the  company  is  gone  tired 
to  bed. 

Lady  B.  {Fondly.)  And  would  you  really 
love  me  dearly  now,  Saturdays,  and  Sundays, 
and  aU? 

Dupe.  Oh  !  this  will  do,  I  see.  {Aside.) 

Lady  B.  You'll  forget  all  this  prittle-j)rattle 
gibberish  to  me  now,  as  soon  as  you  see  the 
fine  sti'ange  ladies,  by-and-by;  there's  I^ady 
Bab  Lardoon,  I  think  they  call  her,  from 
London. 

Dupe.  Lady  Bab  Lardoon,  indeed  !  I  should 
as  soon  be  in  love  with  the  figure  of  the  great 
mogul  at  the  back  of  a  pack  of  cards ;  if  she 
has  anything  to  do  with  hearts,  it  must  be 
when  they  are  trumps,  and  she  pulls  them 
out  of  her  pocket.^  No,  sweet  Philly;  thank 
heaven,  that  gave  me  insight  into  the  sex,  and 
reserved  me  for  a  woman  in  her  native  charms; 
here  alone  she  is  to  be  found,  and  paradise  is 
on  her  lips.  {Struggling  to  kiss  her.) 

Enter  Hurry,  a  servant. 

Hiwry.  Oh !  Lady  Bab,  I  come  to  call  your 
ladyshiji — Lord  !  I  thought  they  never  kissed 
at  a  wedding  till  after  the  ceremony. 

{Going.     Dupery  stares.     Lady  B.  laughs.) 

Dupe.  Stay,  Hurry.  Who  were  you  looking 
for? 

Hurry.  Why,  I  came  with  a  message  for 
Lady  Bab  Larder,  and  would  have  carried  her 
answer,  but  you  stopped  her  mouth. 

Dupe.  Who — what — who?  This  is  Philly 
Nettletop. 

Hurry.  Philly  Fiddlestick !  'Tis  Lady  Bab 
Larder,  I  tell  you.  Do  you  think  I  don't 
know  her  because  she  has  got  a  new  dress. 

[Exit. 

Dupe.  Lady  Bab  Lardoon  ! 

Lady  B.  No,  no  ;  Philly  Nettletop. 

Dupe.  Here's  a  d d  scrape!         {Aside.) 

Lady  B.  In  every  capacity,  sir,  a  rural  in- 
nocent, Mr.  Oldwoi'th's  mistiness,  or  the  great 
mogul,  equally  grateful  for  your  favourable 
opinion.  (  With  a  low  curtsey.) 

Enter  Oldworth,  master  of  the  house,  and 
Sir  Harry  Groveby,  laughing. 

Mr.  Oldworth,  give  me  leave  to  present  to  you 

1  She  was  said  to  be  particularly  fond  of  the  gaming 
talile. 


CHARLOTTE  BROOKE. 


205 


a  gentleman  remurkable  for  second  sight.    He 
knows  all  women  by  instinct^ 

Sir  H.  Flora  a  princess  to  a  figurante,  from 
a  vintage  to  a  may-pole ;  I  am  rejoiced  I  came 
in  time  for  the  catastrophe. 

Ladji  B.  Mr.  Oldworth,  there  is  your  trav- 
elled man  for  you,  and  I  think  I  have  given  a 
pretty  good  account  of  him. 

(^Pointing  at  Dwpely,  who  is  disconcerted.) 

Old.  Come,  come,  my  good  folks,  you  have 
both  acquitted  youi-selves  admirably.  Mr. 
Dupely  must  forgive  the  innocent  deceit ;  and 


you.    Lady  Bab,  like  a  generous  conqueror, 
should  bear  the  triumph  moderately. 

SONG. 

Encompa.ss'd  in  an  angel's  frame, 

An  angel's  virtue.s  lay; 
Too  soon  did  heav'n  a.s.sert  the  claim, 

And  call  its  own  away. 

My  Anna's  worth,  my  Anna's  charms, 

Must  never  more  return  ! 
What  now  shall  fill  these  widow'd  arms  1 

Ah  me  !  my  Anna's  ura. 


CHARLOTTE     BROOKE. 


Born  1740  —  Died  1793. 


[Charlotte  Brooke  was  the  daughter  of 
Henry  Brooke  author  of  Oustavus  Vasa,  and 
was  born  in  1740.  At  an  early  age  she  ex- 
hibited a  passion  for  books,  which  for  a  time 
was  interrupted  by  a  desire  to  go  upon  the 
stage.  Luckily  her  father  prevailed  upon 
her  to  forego  this  intention,  and  returning 
once  more  to  her  books  she  studied  more  pas- 
sionately than  ever.  Frequently,  wliile  the 
rest  of  the  family  were  in  bed,  she  would 
steal  down  stairs  to  the  study,  there  to  lose 
herself  in  her  beloved  antiquities.  In  this 
way  she  was  led  to  the  study  of  the  Irish 
language,  and  in  less  than  two  years  from 
commencing  she  found  herself  mistress  of 
it.  From  reading  Irish  poetry  and  admir- 
ing its  beauties,  she  proceeded  to  translate  it 
into  English,  one  of  her  earliest  efforts  being 
a  song  and  monody  by  Cai'olan,  which  ap- 
peared in  Walker's  Historical  Memoirs  of  the 
Irish  Bards.  These  were  widely  admired, 
and  encouraged  by  this,  and  by  the  advice 
of  friends,  she  set  herself  to  collect  and  trans- 
late such  works  of  Irish  ])oets  as  she  could 
pi'ocure  and  were  found  worthy  of  appearing  in 
an  English  dress.  The  i-esult  was  her  Reliques 
of  Irish  Poetrt/,  which  appeai'ed  in  1788. 
This  work  may  well  take  rank  with  Percy'.s 
Reliques,  not  only  for  its  intrinsic  worth,  but 
because  of  the  influence  it  has  had  on  the 
study  of  the  almost  forgotten  poets  who  had 
wi-itten  in  the  Irish  language. 

Miss  Brooke's  other  works  were :  Dialogue 
hetweeii  a  Lady  and  her  Pupils;  The  School 
for  Christians,  1791  ;  Natural  History,  £c., 
1796;  Emma  or  the  Foundling  of  the  ^yood, 
a  novel,  1803  ;  and  Belesarius,  a  tragedy.] 


TO   A   WARRIOR. 

TRANSL.\TI0N   FROM   THE   OLD   IRISH. 

Resistless  as  the  spirit  of  the  night, 

In  storms  and  terrors  drest, 
Withering  the  force  of  every  hostile  breast, 

Rush  on  the  ranks  of  fight! — 
Youth  of  fierce  deeds  and  noble  soul ! 

Rend,  scatter  wide  the  foe  ! 
Swift  forward  rush,  and  lay  the  waving  pride 

Of  yon  high  ensigns  low ! 
Thine  be  the  battle,  thine  the  sway ! 

On — on  to  Cairbre  hew  thy  conquering  way, 
And  let  thy  deathful  arm  dash  safety  from  his  side! 

As  the  proud  wave,  on  whose  broad  back 

The  storm  its  burden  heaves, 

Drives  on  the  scattered  wreck 

Its  ruin  leaves; 
So  let  thy  sweeping  progress  roll. 
Fierce,  resistless,  rapid,  strong; 
Pour,  like  the  billow  of  the  flood,  o'erwhelming 
might  along. 


OH,   GIVE   ME   SIGHT! 

Like  Bartimeus,  Lord,  1  came, 
To  meet  thy  healing  word; 

To  call  upon  thy  gracious  name, 
And  cry  to  be  restored. 

Across  thy  path  my  limbs  I  laid. 
With  trembling  hope  elate. 

And  there  in  conscious  rags  array'd 
A  poor  blind  beggar  sate. 


206 


HENRY   FLOOD. 


I  did  not  ask  the  alms  of  gold, 

For  sight  alone  I  cried  ; 
Sight !  sight  a  Saviour  to  behold ! 

And  feel  his  power  applied. 

The  more  the  crowd  rebuked  my  prayer 

And  gave  it  to  the  wind, 
The  more  I  cried  thy  grace  to  share, 

Thy  mercy  to  the  blind. 

At  length  I  heard  a  pitying  voice, 
Pilgrim,  he  calls,  "Arise!" 

Poor  pilgi'im,  let  thy  heart  rejoice, 
He  hears  thee  and  replies. 


Up  at  the  word  with  joy  I  bound 

(My  cure  in  hope  begun), 
And  cast  my  garment  on  the  ground, 

That  faster  I  may  run. 

But  the  "What  wilt  thou?"  yet  delays, 

Nor  yet  I  view  the  lii^ht, 
Till  faith  once  more  with  fervour  prays, 

(J  give  me,  give  me  sight ! 

Transport !  'tis  done  !  I  view  that  face  ! 

That  face  of  love  divine, 
I  gaze  the  witness  of  his  grace, 

And  see  a  Saviour  mine. 


HENRY    FLOOD. 

Born  1732  — Died  1791. 


[Henry  Flood,  one  of  that  illustrious  group 
of  Irish  orators  who  flourished  in  the  latter 
half  of  the  eighteenth  century,  was  the  son  of 
the  Right  Hon.  Warden  Flood,  Chief-justice 
of  the  Court  of  King's  Bench  in  Ireland,  and 
was  born  in  1732,  in  the  family  mansion  near 
Kilkenny.  He  was  early  sent  to  school,  on 
leaving  which  he  entered  Trinity  College, 
Dublin,  where  he  stayed  but  a  short  time,  and 
about  1749  was  sent  to  Oxford.  Here,  how- 
ever, he  made  little  progi-ess  in  his  education. 
His  handsome  figure  and  agreeable  manners, 
coupled  with  the  expectation  of  succeeding  to 
a  large  fortune,  gave  him  easy  access  to  a 
certain  jjortion  of  fashionable  society,  and  left 
him  too  much  inclined  to  neglect  the  mental 
culture  which  could  alone  fit  him  to  occupy  an 
honourable  position  in  the  world.  His  tutor 
Dr.  Markham,  afterwards  Archbishop  of  York, 
endeavoured  to  stimulate  his  pupil's  ambition 
in  the  right  direction  by  introducing  him 
among  men  of  education,  whei-e  he  might  be- 
come sensible  of  his  inferiority.  The  plan  was 
successful :  the  young  man's  amour-propre  was 
touched,  and  he  now  devoted  the  greater  part 
of  his  time  to  real  work  with  so  much  assiduity 
and  success,  that  ere  long  he  could  take  a  share 
in  those  literary  discussions  which  before  he 
had  dreaded.  To  the  study  of  the  exact 
sciences  he  added  that  of  the  Greek  and  Latin 
authors,  more  especially  of  the  orators.  At 
the  end  of  two  years  he  graduated,  and  im- 
mediately after  entered  his  name  in  the  Temple, 
where  he  remained  for  several  years  engaged 
in  the  study  of  the  law. 

Flood's  parliamentary  career  began  in  1760, 
when  he  returned  to  Ireland  and  took  his  seat 


in  the  Irish  House  of  Commons  as  member  for 
Kilkenny,  his  native  county — a  seat  which  he 
exchanged  for  that  of  Callan,  in  the  same 
county,  in  the  new  parliament  of  1761.  The 
time  of  his  entrance  on  political  life  was  a 
critical  one  in  the  history  of  his  country. 
Bribery  and  corruption  were  rife,  and  the  house 
was  so  much  under  the  control  of  the  British 
government  that  its  independence  was  only  in 
name.  Flood  took  a  bold  stand  against  this 
state  of  aii'airs,  and  he  soon  formed  a  party 
who  advocated  the  freedom  of  the  Irish  Parlia- 
ment, and  sought  to  overthi-ow  the  prevailing 
system  of  bribery.  He  became  eminently  dis- 
tinguished for  his  eloquence,  and  the  zeal  and 
perseverance  with  which  he  advocated  every 
measure  that  he  regarded  as  beneficial  to  his 
country.  He  endeavoured  to  obtain  the  repeal 
of  a  law  dating  from  the  time  of  Henry  VII., 
called  Poynings'  law,  by  which  the  British 
government  had  the  power  of  altering  or  re- 
jecting all  the  bills  of  the  Irish  legislature. 
He  succeeded  in  carrying  the  octennial  bill, 
by  which  the  duration  of  any  parliament  was 
limited  to  eight  years,  a  reform  which  was 
considered  of  great  jjolitical  advantage  to  Ire- 
land ;  and  he  strenuously  advocated  the  estab- 
lishment of  a  native  militia  in  Ireland  as  a 
balance  against  the  presence  of  a  standing  army. 
After  leading  the  opposition  for  some  years. 
Flood  changed  his  tactics,  alternately  support- 
ing or  opposing  the  measures  brought  forward 
by  successive  administrations  up  to  1780, 
as  he  considered  them  beneficial  or  otherwise; 
and  this  line  of  conduct  no  doubt  frequently 
drew  upon  him  the  charge  of  political  incon- 
sistency.     In  1774  he  had  accepted  the  lucra- 


HENRY   FLOOD. 


207 


tive  post  of  one  of  the  Vice-treasurers  of  Ire- 
land, but  it  was  only  on  condition  of  maintain- 
ing his  principles,  and  when  he  found  this  no 
longer  possible  he  resigned  in  1781,  and  ap- 
peared once  more  as  the  opponent  of  govern- 
ment. But  the  old  fervour  of  his  eloquence, 
so  long  dormant,  seemed  slow  to  rouse,  and 
he  is  said  never  to  have  spoken  again  with  the 
power  he  had  shown  in  eai'liei'  days.  About 
this  time  Yelverton  brought  in  a  bill  for  the 
repeal  of  Poynings'  law,  and  Flood,  while 
supporting  the  measure,  complained  that  "after 
a  service  of  twenty  years  in  the  study  of  this 
particular  question,"  it  had  now  been  taken 
out  of  his  hands.  "The  honourable  gentleman 
is  erecting  a  temple  of  Liberty,"  he  said ;  "I  hope 
that  at  least  I  shall  be  allowed  a  niche  in  the 
fane."  Yelverton  replied  by  reminding  him 
that  in  law  "if  a  man  should  separate  from  his 
wife,  desert,  and  abandon  her  for  seven  years, 
another  might  then  take  her  and  give  her  his 
protection." 

The  opposition  in  the  Irish  House  of  Com- 
mons was  now  possessed  of  two  leaders,  and 
the  natural  result  ensued.  Flood  and  Grat- 
tan  quarrelled  :  the  more  violent  of  the  party 
sided  with  Flood,  the  more  moderate  with 
Grattan,  and  several  passages  of  arms  took 
place  in  the  house.  One  of  these  occurred 
in  1783,  and  was  carried  to  a  degree  of  ani- 
mosity seldom  equalled.  Grattan,  fixing  his 
eyes  upon  Flood,  exclaimed,  "  You  have  great 
talents,  but  you  have  infamously  sold  them  ! 
for  yeai-s  you  have  kept  silence  that  you  might 
make  gain !  I  declare  before  your  country, 
before  the  whole  world,  before  yourself,  that 
you  are  a  dishonest  man  !"  Flood  replied,  but 
such  was  the  strain  of  his  invective  that  the 
speaker  interfered,  and  only  allowed  his  justi- 
fication to  be  made  several  days  afterwards. 

After  this  period  the  party  adhering  to  Grat- 
tan gradually  gained  ascendency,  and  Flood 
turned  his  thoughts  to  England.  Through 
the  influence  of  the  Duke  of  Chandos  he  be- 
came member  for  "Winchester,  and  took  his  seat 
in  the  British  House  of  Commons  in  December, 
1783.  Owing  to  the  reputation  which  he 
had  acquired  in  Ireland,  great  things  were  ex- 
pected from  him.  But  his  first  appearance 
proved  a  failure,  and  this  ever  after  crippled 
his  success.  Entering  the  house  towards  the 
end  of  an  important  debate  on  Mr.  Fox's  East 
India  Bill,  and  when  tired  by  a  long  journey, 
he  was  imprudent  enough  to  attempt  to  speak 
on  a  subject  of  which  at  the  very  outset  he 
confessed  himself  ignorant.  His  vigour  failed 
him ;  his  speech  was  tedious  and  awkward  in 


I  delivery,  though  correct  enougli  in  diction; 
his  eloquence  seemed  utterly  to  have  left  him, 
and  he  could  only  produce  dry  worn-out  argu- 
ments, based  on  general  principles,  and  not  on 
warm  living  facts. 

Soon  after  this,  and  before  he  had  time  to 
recover  his  reputation,  a  dissokition  of  parlia- 
ment took  place,  and  the  Duke  of  Chandos 
refusing  his  support.  Flood  betook  liiniself  to 
the  borough  of  Seaford.  In  tlie  new  parlia- 
ment he  made  several  weighty  and  succe.ssful 
speeches,  and  was  fast  acquiring  a  good  jiosition 
in  the  house,  when  in  1790  he  made  tlie  false 
move  of  introducing  a  reform  bill.  The  time 
was  most  inopportune,  as  revolution  and  not 
reform  was  what  was  hoped  for  on  one  side 
and  feared  on  the  other.  As  a  consequence 
the  two  great  parties  comlaned  against  him  at 
the  next  election,  and  he  was  left  without  a 
seat.  Stung  to  the  quick,  and  suffering  at  the 
same  time  from  an  attack  of  gout,  he  retired 
to  his  estate  of  Farmley  near  Kilkenny.  At  this 
place  a  fire  broke  out,  and,  though  still  suffer- 
ing from  illness,  in  the  excitement  he  exposed 
himself,  and  was  attacked  by  pleurisy,  which 
carried  him  off  on  the  2d  of  December,  1791. 

In  1 763  Flood  had  married  Lady  Frances  Ber- 
esford,  a  lady  who  brought  him  fortune  as  well 
as  a  wide  and  influential  connection.  In  1769, 
whilst  member  for  Callan,  he  had  an  unfor- 
tunate dispute  with  his  colleague  Mr.  Agar, 
and  in  a  duel  which  ensued  the  latter  was 
killed.  For  this  Flood  was  tried  and  acquitted 
at  the  spring  assizes  of  1770  in  Kilkenny.  By 
his  will  he  bequeathed  property  to  the  value 
of  £5000  to  the  University  of  Dublin,  but  this 
bequest  was  ultimately  set  aside  by  an  appeal 
to  the  law  of  mortmain,  and  his  descendants 
now  hold  the  property. 

As  an  orator  Flood  has  been  as  highly 
praised  by  his  friends  as  he  has  been  fiercely 
blamed  by  his  enemies ;  but  there  must  have 
been  no  small  charm  in  his  eloquence  when  it 
made  his  audience  forget  his  rasping  voice  and 
irritating  habit  of  lowering  it  at  the  end  of  his 
sentences.  On  this  point  an  old  biographer 
says,  "  The  eloquence  of  Flood  was  remarkable 
for  the  force  of  its  reasoning,  for  the  purity 
and  richness  of  its  style,  full  of  images  and 
of  classic  allusions.  He  showed  to  more  ad- 
vantage in  reply  than  in  attack :  woe  indeed 
to  the  adversary  who  provoked  his  sarcasm!" 
However  famous  he  was  in  his  native  parlia- 
ment, there  can  be  no  doubt  that  he  was  there 
soon  overshadowed  by  the  towering  figure  of 
Grattan,  between  whom  and  Flood  there  were 
few  things  in   common.      Grattau's  moving 


208 


HENRY   FLOOD. 


power  was  an  enthusiastic  love  of  country  and 
a  poetic  nature,  while  Flood's  was  to  a  great 
extent  vanity,  although  it  must  be  admitted 
that  he  was  a  warm  and  undeviating  lover  of 
truth  and  honesty.  As  an  author  Flood  at 
intervals  dallied  with  the  muses.  While  at 
Oxford  he  wrote  a  poem  on  the  death  of 
Frederick,  Prince  of  Wales,  one  stanza  of 
which  was  afterwards  echoed  by  Gray  in  his 
Elegy.  His  Pindaric  Ode  to  Fame  is  nervous 
and  vigorous,  and  his  poem  on  the  discovery 
of  America  contains  several  good  passages. 
In  addition  to  original  work,  he  also  translated 
two  speeches  of  JEschines,  and  the  Crown 
Oration  of  Demosthenes,  after  the  latter  of 
whom  he  tried  to  model  his  own  style. 

Mr.  W.  E.  H.  Lecky,  in  his  Leaders  of 
Public  Opinion  in  Ireland,  says  of  Flood : — 
"There  is  something  inexpressibly  melancholy 
in  the  life  of  this  man.  .  .  .  Though  he  attained 
to  a  position  which,  before  him,  had  been 
unknown  in  Ireland ;  though  the  unanimous 
verdict  of  his  contemporaries  pi'ouounced  him 
to  be  one  of  the  greatest  intellects  that  ever 
adoi-ned  the  Irish  Parliament;  and  though 
there  is  not  a  single  act  of  his  life  which 
may  not  be  construed  in  a  sense  perfectly  in 
harmony  with  honour  and  with  patriotism, 
yet  his  career  presents  one  long  series  of  dis- 
appointments and  reverses.  At  an  age  when 
most  statesmen  are  in  the  zenith  of  their 
influence  he  sunk  into  political  imjDotence. 
The  i^arty  he  had  formed  discarded  him  as  its 
leader.  The  reputation  he  so  dearly  prized 
was  clouded  and  assailed;  the  principles  he 
had  sown  germinated  and  fructified  indeed, 
but  others  reaped  their  fruit ;  and  he  is  now 
scarcely  remembered  except  as  the  object  of  a 
powerful  invective  in  Ireland,  and  as  an  ex- 
ample of  a  deplorable  failure  in  England.  A 
few  pages  of  oratory,  which  probably  at  best 
only  represent  the  substance  of  his  speeches, 
a  few  youthful  poems,  a  few  labour'ed  letters, 
and  a  biography  so  meagre  and  unsatisfactory 
that  it  scarcely  gives  us  any  insight  into  his 
character,  are  all  that  remain  of  Henry 
Flood."] 


FLOOD'S   REPLY   TO   GRATTAN'S 
INVECTIVE.^ 

I  rise,  sir,  in  defence  of  an  injured  charac- 
ter ;  and  when  I  recall  the  aspersions  of  that 
night,— while  I  despise  them,  they  shall  be 


1  A  speech  delivered  in  tlie  Irish  parliament  in  1783  in 
reply  to  the  attack  on  him  by  Jlr.  Grattau. 


recalled  only  to  be  disproved.  As  I  have 
endeavoured  to  defend  the  rights  of  this 
country  for  four-and-twenty  years,  I  hope  the 
house  will  permit  me  to  defend  my  reputation. 
My  public  life,  sir,  has  been  divided  into  three 
parts — and  it  has  been  despatched  by  three 
epithets.  The  first  part,  that  which  preceded 
Lord  Harcourt's  administration;  the  next, 
which  passed  between  Lord  Harcoui't's  and 
Lord  Carlisle's;  and  the  third,  which  is  subse- 
quent. The  first  has  a  summary  justice  done 
it  by  being  said  to  be  "intemperate," — the 
second  is  treated  in  like  manner  by  being  said 
to  be  "  venal," — and  the  conduct  of  the  third 
is  said  to  be  that  of  an  "  incendiary."    .    .     . 

With  respect  to  that  period  of  my  life  which 
is  despatched  by  the  word  "intemperate,"  I 
beg  the  house  would  consider  the  difficult 
situation  of  public  men  if  such  is  to  be  their 
treatment.  That  period  takes  in  a  number  of 
administrations,  in  which  the  public  were 
pleased  to  give  me  the  sentence  of  their  appro- 
bation. Sir,  it  includes,  for  I  wish  to  speak 
to  facts,  not  to  take  it  up  on  epithets,  the  ad- 
ministrations of  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  Lord 
Halifax,  the  Duke  of  Northumberland,  Lord 
Hertford,  and  Lord  Townshend.  Now,  sir, 
as  to  the  fact  of  "intemperate,"  I  wish  to 
state  to  you  how  that  stands,  and  let  the 
honourable  member  see  how  plain  a  tale  will 
put  him  down.  Of  those  five  administrations 
there  were  three  to  which  I  was  so  far  from 
giving  an  "  intemperate "  opposition,  that  I 
could  not  be  said  in  any  sense  of  the  word  to 
oppose  them  at  all — I  mean  the  three  fii-st. 
I  certainly  voted  against  the  secretary  (Mr. 
Hamilton)  of  the  day,  but  oftener  voted  with 
him.  In  Lord  Hertford's  administration  I 
had  attained  a  certain  view,  and  a  decided 
ojiinion  of  what  was  fit  in  my  mind  to  be  done 
for  Ireland.  I  had  fixed  on  three  gi-eat  objects 
of  public  utility.  I  endeavoured  to  attain 
them  with  that  spirit  and  energy  with  which 
it  is  my  character  and  nature  to  act  and  to 
speak, — as  I  must  take  the  disadvantages  of 
my  nature,  I  will  take  the  advantages  of  it 
too, — they  were  resisted  by  that  administra- 
tion. What  was  the  consequence?  A  conflict 
arose  between  that  administration  and  me : 
but  that  conflict  ought  not  to  be  called  oppo- 
sition on  my  part ;  no,  it  ought  rather  to  be 
called  opposition  on  theirs.  I  was  the  pro- 
pounds'—  they  resisted  my  propositions.  This 
may  be  called  a  conflict  with,  not  an  opposi- 
tion to  that  administration.  What  were  those 
three  great  objects?  One  was  to  jirove  that 
the  constitution  of  parliament  in  this  kingdom 


HENRY   FLOOD. 


209 


did  still  exist;  that  it  had  uot  been  taken 
away  by  the  law  of  poynings,  but  that  it  was 
by  an  infamous  perversion  of  that  statute  by 
which  the  constitution  had  suffered.  The 
second  was  the  establishment  of  a  constitu- 
tional militiiry  force  in  sui)erad(lition  to  that 
of  a  standing  army,- — the  only  idea  that  ever 
occurred  in  England,  or  in  any  free  country 
in  Europe,  was  that  of  a  constitutional  militia. 
The  third  great  object  I  took  up,  as  necessary 
for  Ireland,  was  a  law  for  limiting  the  dura- 
tion of  parliaments  in  this  country.  These 
were  three  great,  salutary,  and  noble  projects, 
worthy  of  an  enlarged  mind.  I  pursued  them 
with  ardour,  I  do  uot  deny  it,  but  I  did  not 
pursue  them  with  intemperance.  I  am  sure 
I  did  not  appear  to  the  public  to  do  so,  since 
they  gave  my  exertions  many  flattering  testi- 
monies of  their  approbation ;  there  is  another 
proof,  however,  that  I  was  not  "intemperate" 
— I  was  successful.  Intemperance  and  mis- 
carriage are  apt  to  go  together,  but  temperance 
and  success  are  associated  by  nature.  This  is 
my  plain  history  with  regard  to  that  period. 
The  clumsiness  or  virulence  of  invective  may 
require  to  be  sheathed  in  a  brilliancy  of 
figures,  but  plain  truth  and  plain  sense  are 
best  delivered  in  simple  language. 

I  now  come  to  that  period  in  which  Lord 
Harcourt  governed,  and  which  is  stigmatized 
by  the  word  "  venal."  If  every  man  who 
accepts  an  office  is  "venal"  and  an  "apostate," 
I  certainly  cannot  acquit  myself  of  the  charge, 
nor  is  it  necessary.  If  it  be  a  crime  univer- 
sally, let  it  be  universally  ascribed ;  but  it  is 
not  fair  that  one  set  of  men  should  be  treated 
by  that  honourable  member  as  great  friends 
and  lovers  of  their  country,  notwithstanding 
they  are  in  office,  and  another  set  of  men 
should  be  treated  as  enemies  and  apostates. 
What  is  the  truth?  Everything  of  this  sort 
depends  on  the  principles  on  which  office  is 
taken,  and  on  which  it  is  retained.  With 
regard  to  myself  let  no  man  imagine  I  am 
preaching  up  a  doctrine  for  my  own  con- 
venience ;  there  is  no  man  in  this  house  less 
concerned  in  the  propagation  of  it.  ...  I  beg 
leave  to  state  briefly  the  manner  in  which  I 
accepted  the  vice-treasurership : — 

It  was  ofl"ered  me  in  the  most  honourable 
manner,  with  an  assurance  not  only  of  being  a 
placeman  for  my  own  profit,  but  a  minister 
for  the  benefit  of  my  country.  My  answer 
was  that  I  thought  in  a  constitution  such  as 
the  British  an  intercoiirse  between  the  prince 
and  the  subject  ought  to  be  honourable.  The 
circumstance  of  being  a  minister  ought  to 
Vol.  I, 


redound  to  a  man's  credit,  though  I  lament  to 
say  it  often  happens  otherwise ;  men  in  office 
frequently  forget  those  principles  which  they 
maintained  before.  I  mentioned  the  public 
principles  which  I  held,  and  added,  if  con- 
sistently with  them,  from  an  atom  of  which  I 
could  not  depart,  I  could  be  of  service  to  his 
majesty's  government,  I  was  ready  to  render 
it.  I  now  speak  in  the  presence  of  men  who 
know  what  I  say.  After  the  appointment 
had  come  over  to  this  kingdom,  I  sent  in 
writing  to  the  chief  governor  that  I  could  not 
accept  it  unless  on  my  own  stipulations.  Thus, 
sir,  I  took  office.    .    .    . 

In  Lord  Harcourt's  administration  what 
did  I  do  i  I  had  the  board  of  commissioners 
reduced  to  one,  by  which  a  saving  of  twenty 
thousand  pounds  a  year  was  effected.  I  went 
further,  I  insisted  on  having  every  altered 
money  bill  thrown  out,  and  privy-council  bills 
not  defended  by  the  crown.  Thus,  instead  of 
giving  sanction  to  the  measures  I  had  opposed, 
my  conduct  was  in  fact  to  register  my  princi- 
ples in  the  records  of  the  court — to  make  the 
privy-council  witness  the  privileges  of  a  par- 
liament, and  give  final  energy  to  the  tenets 
with  which  I  commenced  my  public  life.  The 
right  honourable  member  who  has  censured 
me,  in  order  to  depreciate  that  economy  said, 
"  that  we  had  swept  with  the  feather  of  econ- 
omy the  pens  and  paper  off"  our  table : "  a 
pointed  and  brilliant  expression  is  far  from  a 
just  argiiment.  This  country  had  no  reason 
to  be  ashamed  of  that  species  of  economy, 
when  the  great  nation  of  Britain  had  been 
obliged  to  descend  to  a  system  as  minute ;  it 
was  not  my  fault  if  infinitely  more  was  not 
done.  If  administrations  were  wrong  on  the 
abse7itee-tax,  they  were  wrong  with  the  pre- 
judices of  half  a  century — they  were  wrong 
with  every  great  writer  that  has  treated  of 
Irish  aftaii-s.  ...  To  show  that  I  was  not 
under  any  undue  influence  of  office,  when  the 
disposition  of  the  house  was  made  to  alter  on 
the  absentee-tax,  and  when  the  administration 
yielded  to  the  violence  of  parliament,  I  appeal 
to  the  consciousness  and  public  testimony  of 
many  present  whether  I  did  veer  and  turn 
with  the  secretary,  or  whether  I  did  not  make 
a  manly  stand  in  its  favour.  After  having 
pledged  myself  to  the  public  I  would  rather 
break  with  a  million  of  atlministrations  than 
retract;  I  not  only  adhered  to  that  principle, 
but,  by  a  singular  instance  of  exertion,  found 
it  a  second  time  under  the  consideration  of 
this  house.    .    .    . 

The  third,  commencing  with  Lord  Carlisle's 

14 


210 


HENRY   FLOOD. 


administration,  in  which  my  conduct  has  been 
slandered  as  "  incendiary."  There  was  not  a 
single  instance  in  which  the  honourable  gen- 
tleman (Mr.  Grattan)  did  not  co-operate.  If 
I  am  an  incendiary,  I  will  gladly  accept  of  the 
society  of  that  right  honourable  member, 
under  the  same  appellation.  If  I  was  an  in- 
cendiary it  was  for  moving  what  the  parlia- 
ments of  both  kingdoms  have  since  given  their 
sanction  to.  If  that  is  to  be  an  incendiary, 
God  grant  that  I  may  continue  so.  Now,  sir, 
I  do  not  know  that  my  dismission  from  office 
was  thought  any  disgrace  to  me ;  I  do  not 
think  this  house  or  the  nation  thought  me 
dishonoured.  The  first  day  I  declared  those 
sentiments  for  which  I  was  dismissed  I  thought 
it  was  my  honour.  Many  very  honourable 
and  worthy  gentlemen,  one  of  whom  is  since 
dead,  except  in  the  grateful  memory  of  his 
country — one  who  thought  me  so  little  the 
character  of  an  "  incendiary,"  that  he  crossed 
the  house,  together  with  othei-s,  to  congratulate 
me  on  the  honour  of  my  conduct,  and  to  em- 
brace me  in  open  parliament.  At  that  moment 
I  surely  stood  free  of  the  imputation  of  an 
"  incendiary  ! "  But  this  beloved  character 
(Mr.  Burgh),  over  whose  life  nor  over  whose 
grave  envy  never  hovered  —  He  was  a  man 
wishing  ardently  to  serve  his  country,  but  not 
to  monopolize  the  service — wishing  to  partake 
and  to  communicate  the  glory  of  what  passed ! 
— He  gave  me  in  his  motion  for  "  free-trade,"  a 
full  participation  of  the  honour.  On  a  subse- 
qiient  occasion  he  said, — I  remember  the  words 
well,  they  are  traced  with  a  pencil  of  giatitude 
on  my  heart, — "  That  I  was  a  man  whom  the 
most  lucrative  office  of  the  land  had  never 
warped  in  point  of  integrity."  The  words  were 
marked,  and  I  am  sure  I  repeat  them  fairly ; 
they  are  words  I  should  be  proud  to  have 
inscribed  on  my  tomb.  Consider  the  man 
from  whom  they  came ;  consider  the  situation 
of  the  persons  concerned,  and  it  adds  and  mul- 
tiplies the  honour.  My  noble  friend — I  beg 
pardon,  he  did  not  live  to  be  ennobled  by 
patent,  but  he  was  ennobled  by  nature — was 
thus  situated :  he  had  found  himself  obliged 
to  surrender  his  office  and  enter  into  active 
opposition  to  that  government  from  whom  he 
had  obtained  it ;  at  the  same  time  I  remained 
in  office,  though  under  the  circumstance  of 
having  sent  in  ray  resignation.  That  he  did 
not  know,  but,  careless  to  everything  save 
honour  and  justice,  he  gave  way  to  those 
sentiments  of  his  heart,  and  he  approved. 

I  have  received  this  day  from  the  united 
delegates  of  the  province  of   Connaught  an 


approbation,  "  with  one  voice,"  as  they  em- 
phatically express  it,  of  that  conduct  that  has 
been  slandered  by  the  epithet  of  "  incendiary." 
An  assemblage  not  one  of  whom  I  have  ever 
seen,  not  one  of  whom  I  have  even  a  chance 
of  doing  a  service  for,  and,  therefore,  could 
have  nothing  in  contemplation  but  the  doing 
an  act  of  justice.  Sir,  I  had  a  similar  expres- 
sion of  approbation  from  another  province — 
Ulster.  Therefore,  if  I  am  an  incendiary,  all 
Connaught  are  incendiaries — all  Ulster  are 
incendiaries !  With  two  provinces  at  my 
back,  and  the  parliament  of  England  in  my 
favour  (by  the  act  of  remuneration),  I  think 
I  need  not  fear  this  solitary  accusation.  .  .  . 

It  has  been  said  by  the  right  honourable 
member  (Mr.  Grattan)  that  "  I  am  an  outcast 
of  government  and  of  my  prince;"  it  was 
certainly,  sir,  an  extraordinary  transaction, 
but  it  likewise  happened  to  Mr.  Pultney  and 
the  Duke  of  Devonshire ;  therefore  it  is  not 
a  decisive  proof  of  a  reprobated  or  factious 
character,  and  it  is  the  first  time  it  has  been 
mentioned  to  disadvantage.  .  .  .  Sir,  you 
have  heard  the  accusation  of  the  right  hon- 
ourable member.  I  appeal  to  you  if  I  am 
that  supposititious  character  he  has  drawn,  if 
I  am  that  character  in  any  degi'ee.  I  do  not 
deprecate  your  justice,  but  I  demand  it.  I 
exhort  you  for  the  honour  of  this  house,  I 
exhort  you  for  the  honour  of  your  country,  to 
rid  yourselves  of  a  member  who  would  be  un- 
worthy to  sit  among  you. 


A  DEFENCE   OF   THE   VOLUNTEERS.^ 

Sir,  I  have  not  mentioned  the  biU  as  being 
the  measure  of  any  set  of  men  or  body  of 
men  whomsoever.  I  am  as  free  to  enter  into 
the  discussion  of  the  bill  as  any  gentleman  in 
this  house,  and  with  as  little  prepossession  of 
what  I  shall  propose.  I  prefer  it  to  the  house 
as  the  bill  of  my  right  honourable  friend  who 
seconded  me, — will  you  receive  it  from  us? 

(After  a  short  pause  Mr.  Flood  continued:) 
In  the  last  jiarliament  it  was  ordered  "  That 
leave  be  given  for  the  more  equal  representa- 
tion of  the  people  in  parliament;"  this  was  in 
the  Duke  of  Portland's  administration,  an  ad- 
ministration the  right  honourable  gentleman 
(Mr.  Yelverton)  professes  to  admire,  and 
which  he  will  not  suspect  of  overturning  the 
constitution. 


1  A  speech  delivered  in  the  Irish  parliament  in  1783. 


HENRY   FLOOD. 


211 


I  own,  from  the  turn  which  has  been  given 
to  this  question,  I  enter  on  it  with  the  deepest 
anxiety,  armed  with  the  aiitliority  of  a  prece- 
dent I  did  not  think  any  one  would   be  so 
desperate  as  to  give  such  violent  oii[)osition  to 
the  simple  introduction  of  a  bill.     1  now  rise 
for   the  first   time  to  speak    to  the  subject, 
and  I  call  on  every  man,  auditor  or  spectator, 
in  the  house  or  in  the  galleries,  to  remember 
this  truth, — that  if  the  volunteers  are  intro- 
duced in  this  debate,  it  is  not  I  who  do  so. 
The  right  honourable  gentleman  says,  "  If  the 
volunteer  have  approved  it  he  will  oppose  it ; " 
but  I  say  I  bring  it  in  as  a  member  of  this 
house  supported  by  the  powerful  aid  of  my 
right  honourable  friend  (Mr.  Brownlow)  who 
sits   behind   me.     We  bring  it   in  as  mem- 
bers  of    parliament,   never    mentioning   the 
volunteers.     I  ask  you,  will  you  receive  it 
from  us — from  us,  your  members,  neither  in- 
tending by  anything  within  doors  or  without 
to  intinaidate  or  overawe  you?     I  ask,  will 
you— will  you  receive  it  as  our  bill,  or  will  you 
conjure  uj)  a  military  phantom  of  interposition 
to  affright  yourselves? 

I  have  not  introduced  the  volunteers,  but 
if  they  are  aspersed  I  will  defend  their  char- 
acter against  all  the  world.  By  whom  were 
the  commerce  and  the  constitution  of  this 
country  recovered  ?— By  the  volimteers ! 

Why  did  not  the  right  honourable  gentle- 
man make  a  declaration  against  them  when 
they  lined  our  streets— when  parliament  pa.ssed 
through  the  ranks  of  those  virtuous  armed 
men  to  demand  the  rights  of  an  insulted  na- 
tion ?  Are  they  different  men  at  this  day,  or 
is  the  right  honourable  gentleman  diflferent? 
He  was  then  one  of  their  body,  he  is  now  their 
accuser !  He  who  saw  the  streets  lined,  who 
rejoiced,  who  partook  in  their  glory,  is  now 
their  accuser !  Are  they  less  wise,  less  brave, 
less  ardent  in  their  country's  cause,  or  has  their 
admirable  conduct  made  him  their  enemy? 
May  they  not  say.  We  have  not  changed,  but  ' 
you  have  changed?  The  right  honourable  ' 
gentleman  cannot  bear  to  hear  of  volunteers ; 
but  I  will  ask  him,  and  I  will  have  a  starling 
taught  to  luxlloo  in  his  ear — Who  gave  you  the 
free-trade?  who  got  you  the  free  constitution? 
who  made  you  a  nation  ?     The  volunteers  ! 

If  they  were  the  men  you  now  describe 
them,  why  did  you  accept  of  their  service? 
why  did  you  not  then  accuse  them  ?  If  they 
were  so  dangerous,  why  did  you  pass  through 
their  ranks  with  your  speaker  at  your  head 
to  demand  a  constitution?  why  did  you  not  then 
fear  the  ills  you  now  apprehend? 


ON   A   COMMERCIAL   TREATY   WITH 
FIIAXCE.' 

^  One  tiling  at  least  I   think  is  clear,  that 
France  is  one  of  the  last  countries  in  Europe 
with  which  you  ought  to  have  engaged;  yet 
by  this  treaty  you  will  make  her  the  fii-st, 
though  she  has  taken  care  not  to  make  you 
so.    What  is  the  consequence  ?  She  can  now  do 
against  you  what  you  cannot  retaliate  against 
her.     She  can  use  her  influence  with  S]jain— 
Is  she  not  doing  it?— With  America— Is  .she 
not  doing    it?— and    in  every  other  country 
with   which   she   communicates,    to    prevent 
them  from  entering  into  engagements  with 
you.     How  easily  can  she  prevail  on  them  to 
insist  upon  preliminaries  to  which  you  cannot 
accede,  and  yet  to  which,  if  you  do  not  accede, 
they  will  not  negotiate.     What  follows?     A 
decline  of  communication  between  you  and 
those  powei-s.     And  what  follows  from  tliat  ? 
That  what  those   powers  must  inijiort  from 
you    they   will    choose   to   imjjort   indirectly 
through  France  rather  than  directly  from  you. 
Thus   for   so    much   she   would   become   the 
medium  and  carrier  of  your  trade,  a  circum- 
stance in  my  mind  devoutly  to  be  deprecated. 
What  is   at  present   your  confidence  as  to 
America?     Is  it  not  that  she  must  return  to 
you  for  the  sake  of  that  long  credit  which 
France  cannot  afford  to  her.     But  what  will 
be  the  operation  of  this  treaty?     It  will  give 
English  credit  to  France  in  the  first  instance, 
and    in   the  second    France   can   give   it    to 
America.     Thus  it  will  deprive  you  of  your 
only  advantage  as  to  America,  and  transfer  it 
to  your  rival,  who  has  every  other  advantage. 
Thus  it  will  cement  the  connection  between 
France  and  America,  and  perpetuate  the  dis- 
connection between    those   states  and  Great 
Britain,  whilst  in  Europe  it  will  rivet  the 
confederacy  between  France  and  Spain,  and 
unrivet  that  between  Great  Britain  and  Portu- 
gal, if  it  does  not  even  add  it  as  a  link  to  the 
chain  of  the  house  of  Bourbon.    As  to  Ireland, 
what  is  its  policy?     It  shows  more  favour  to 
France  than  was  shown  the  other  day  to  Ire- 
land.    And  what  does  it  do  next  ?     It  sends 
France  into  Ireland  to  colonize  in  her  towns, 
to  line  her  western  coast  and  the  Atlantic, 
to  become  the  medium  between  certain  classes 
of    her   people   and    America,    to   encoiu-age 
emigration  in  peace  and  separation  in  war. 


1  From  a  speech  delivered  in  the  British  parliament 
(1787),  in  reply  to  Mr.  Pitt,  whose  commercial  system 
Flood  combated. 


212 


HENRY   FLOOD. 


Now  turn  your  eyes  to  the  East.  What  did 
France  do  in  17481  She  made  the  treaty  of 
Aix-la-Chapelle,  and  the  day  after  she  fortified 
in  America.  The  day  after  this  treaty  she  will 
fortify  in  Asia.  What  will  follow?  If  she  can- 
not rival  your  cotton  manufacture  in  Europe, 
she  will  undo  it  in  Asia.  She  will  admit 
Asiatic  cottons  free  from  duty.  She  can  do  it 
without  even  an  infraction  of  this  treaty,  for 
even  that  has  not  been  guarded  against  by 
your  negotiator.  But  she  cannot  do  it  with- 
out the  ruin  of  your  Eurojjean  manufactures. 
Would  not  this  be  an  acceptable  measure  in 
Asia,  I  ask  ?  If  she  were  to  contend  with  you 
for  Bengal  (which  one  day  she  will),  could  she 
do  it  upon  a  better  foundation?  With  her 
intrigues  among  the  Asiatic  powers ;  with  the 
connivance  or  co-operation  of  the  Dutch,  re- 
cruited and  fortified  as  she  then  v/ould  be, 
might  not  your  Asiatic  Empire  tremble?  Is 
it  so  secure  in  its  nature  as  to  bid  defiance  to 
assault]  Or  is  any  man  so  credulous  as  to 
believe  that  to  the  glory  of  having  stripped 
you  of  America,  she  would  not  wish  to  accu- 
mulate the  renown  of  depriving  you  of  Asia 
too?  I  am  no  re  viler  of  France.  I  honour  her 
genius,  I  honour  her  activity ;  but  whilst  I 
honour  France  I  am  devoted  to  Great  Britain. 
Time  and  circumstances  have  made  us  rivals ; 
let  us  be  as  generous  rivals  as  you  will ;  but 
let  us  not  be  counterfeiting  friends. 

No  man  glories  more  than  I  do  in  the 
mighty  exertions  of  this  great  nation  in  the 
last  war,  whilst  no  man  more  regrets  the  prin- 
ciple and  the  event  of  it.  But  I  am  not  so 
credulous  as  to  believe  that  our  failure  has 
rendered  us  more  formidable  to  France.  On 
the  other  hand,  I  see  no  reason  to  despond. 
For  if  Queen  Elizabeth,  amidst  all  her  dis- 
tresses, could  place  this  country  at  the  head 
of  Europe,  as  the  common  friend  to  justice 
and  as  the  common  enemy  to  o])pression ;  if 
Oliver  Cromwell,  with  the  stain  of  usurper  on 
his  head,  could  continue  this  kingdom  in  the 
situation  in  wliich  it  had  been  placed  by  Eliza- 
beth ;  and  if  both  of  them  could  do  this  with- 
out the  aid  of  America,  I  do  not  see  why  we 
should  despond  now. 

With  these  glniies  before  my  eyes,  and 
rememl)eriiig  how  no1)Iy  tliey  have  been  aug- 
mented within  these  hundred  years,  I  stand 
in  astonishment  at  the  preanil)le  of  this  treaty, 
which  calls  on  us,  in  a  tone  of  triumph,  to 
reverse  the  system  of  tliat  century.  I  cannot 
help  asking  myself  who  these  men  are  wlio 
thus  summon  a  mighty  nation  to  renounce  its 


honours  and  to  abdicate  its  superiority.  But 
be  they  who  they  may,  if  they  ask  me  to  de- 
pose Great  Britain,  and  to  put  France  into  the 
throne  of  Europe,  I  answer.  No.  If  they  ask 
me  to  repeal  the  revolution,  I  answer,  No.  Or 
the  liberty  that  came  with  it,  or  the  glory  that 
followed  it,  or  the  maxims  of  government  that 
have  cherished  and  adorned  them  both,  I 
continue  to  answer  by  a  reiterated  negative. 
I  confide  that  you  will  do  the  same,  and  I 
conclude. 


EXTRACT   FROM   "PINDARIC   ODE 
TO   FAME." 

0  mighty  Fame ! 
Thou  for  whom  Caesar  restles.s  fought, 
And  Regulus  his  godlike  suffering  sought: 

AVhat  can  the  sense  of  mortals  tame, 

And  nature's  deepest  murmurings  hush, 

That  thus  on  death  they  rush; 
That  horror  thus,  and  anguish  they  control, 
Lull'd  by  thy  airy  power  which  lifts  the  daring 
soul. 

The  female  spirit  still, 

And  timorous  of  ill, 
In  softest  climes,  by  thy  almighty  will. 
Dauntless  can  mount  the  funeral  pyre, 

And  by  a  husband's  side  expire; 
No  unbecoming  human  fear 

The  exalted  sacrifice  delays, 
In  youth  and  beauty's  flowering  year, 

Serene  she  mingles  with  the  blaze. 

The  Indian  on  the  burning  iron  bound, 
By  busy  tortures  compass'd  round, 

Beholds  thee,  and  is  pleased, 

With  towering  frenzy  seized; 
Tells  them  they  know  not  how  to  kill, 
Demands  a  torment  fit  for  man  to  feel, 
And  dictates  some  new  pang,  some  more  enven- 
om'd  wound. 

The  hall  of  Odin  rang. — 

Amidst  the  barbarous  clang 
Of  boastful  chiefs  and  dire  alarms, 
The  warrior  hears  thy  magic  cry. 

Thundering — "To  arms !  to  arms !" 
Struck  by  the  sound,  behold  him  fly. 
O'er  the  steep  mountain's  icy  bar, 
And  drive  before  him  Shout  and  Pain, 
And  Slaughter  mad,  the  dogs  of  war; 

Then  of  his  bootless  trophies  vain, 

Back  to  the  hall  of  Death  return, 
And  brood  upon  the  name  which  Ins  wide  ruins 
earn. 


CHARLES   MACKLIN. 


213 


Hence  tliat  unquenchcd  lust, 
In  noblest  minds  the  noblest  deeds  to  dare; 

That,  should  they  sink  in  dust, 
Their  memory  may  renounce  this  fleeting  doom : 


And,  shaking  oft  the  tomb. 
May  wander  through  the  living  air, 
.\iid  traverse  earth  with  their  renown, 
And  eternize  their  date,  by  an  immortal  crown. 


CHARLES     MACKLIN. 


BoKN  1690  — Died  1797. 


[Charles  Macklin,  or  Maclaughlin,  as  he 
ought  properly  to  be  called,  was  born  iu 
Westineatli  in  the  year  1690.  Foote  states 
that  his  parents  were  so  poor  that  he  never 
was  taught  to  read ;  but  in  this  the  comedian 
was  probably  only  gratifying  the  spitefulness 
of  his  nature,  for  Macklin's  biographer  Kirk- 
man  distinctly  states  that  his  pai-ents  were 
respectable  and  possessed  of  considerable  pro- 
perty, most  of  which,  however,  they  afterwards 
lost  through  the  confusion  of  the  times.  In 
1704  his  father  died,  and  in  1707  his  mother 
"married  a  second  husband,  who  opened  a 
tavern  in  Werburgh  Street,"  Dublin.  Macklin 
was  at  this  time  at  a  boarding-school  at  Island 
Bridge,  not  far  from  Dublin;  but  in  1708, 
being  infected  with  a  love  for  the  stage,  he 
and  two  other  youths  ran  off  to  London.  From 
London  he  was  brought  back  to  Dublin  by 
his  mother,  and  for  a  time  he  acted  as 
badgeman  to  Trinity  College.  Again,  how- 
ever, he  went  to  London,  this  time  in  com- 
pany with  a  friend,  who  intended  to  pro- 
vide for  him,  but  he  abruptly  left  his  friend 
and  joined  a  company  of  low  players  who 
performed  at  Hockly-in-the-Hole.  Again 
he  was  sought  out  and  brought  home  by  his 
mother,  but  the  roving  propensity  was  too 
strong  in  him,  and  he  left  home  once  more  and 
joined  a  strolling  company  at  Bristol.  After 
this,  for  about  a  dozen  years  he  followed  the 
life  of  a  strolling  player,  enduring  aU  its  hard- 
ships and  wisely  learning  the  lessons  it  had  to 
teach.  In  1725  he  came  to  London  and  was 
engaged  by  Mr.  Eich  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields, 
but  was  dismissed  after  one  season  because 
his  tone  was  too  natural  and  not  of  the  tragic 
kind.  In  1730  he  was  again  engaged  in  this 
theatre  for  a  short  time ;  during  the  winter  of 
1733  he  appeared  at  Drury  Lane,  and  at  the 
commencement  of  the  season  in  1734  he  was 
engaged  by  the  new  manager,  and  his  theatrical 
career,  so  far  as  the  public  were  concerned, 
really  began.  In  1735  he  had  a  dispute  with 
a  f  eUow-actor,  whom  in  the  heat  of  passion  he 


wounded  in  the  eye.  The  actor  died,  and 
MackUn  was  tried  and  found  guilty  of  man- 
slaughter. In  January,  1736,  howevei-,  he 
resumed  his  post  in  the  theatre,  and  for 
some  years  thereafter  continued  to  perform 
in  that  house  with  satisfaction  to  both  man- 
ager and  public.  In  1743  the  irregularities 
of  the  manager  caused  Gairick,  Macklin,  and 
the  other  actors  to  engage  to  stand  by  each 
other  till  all  had  justice  done  them,  binding 
themselves  to  enter  into  no  agreement  or  com- 
promise separately.  After  a  time,  however, 
the  majority  accejjted  the  manager's  terms,  and 
a  little  later  Garrick  very  shabbily  deserted 
his  companion  in  the  light  and  followed  their 
example.  Macklin  was  thus  left  alone  to  be 
the  scape-goat  of  the  rest,  and  he  and  his  wife 
were  dismissed  from  all  their  engagements. 
Before  this  time  he  had  established  his  repu- 
tation as  an  actor  by  his  natural  performance 
of  Shylock,  which  had  hitherto  been  played 
farcically  by  a  low  comedian.  It  is  said  that 
once  while  he  was  peiforming  this  character  a 
gentleman  in  the  pit  exclaimed,  "  This  is  the 
Jew  which  Shakspere  drew."  Deprived  of 
his  employment,  he  now  collected  together  a 
number  of  novices  in  the  art,  including  Foote 
and  Hill,  and  opened  the  Haymarket  Theatre, 
with  their  help,  in  February,  1744.  For  four 
or  live  months  he  kept  this  theatre  open,  but 
afterwards  he  made  his  peace  with  tlie  man- 
ager of  Drury  Lane  and  was  again  engaged. 

In  January,  1746,  Macklin  made  his  fii-st 
appearance  as  an  author  in  a  hastily  written 
tragedy  entitled  King  Henry  the  Seventh. 
The  play  was  almost  if  not  altogether  a  fail- 
ure, yet  in  April  of  the  same  year  he  had 
the  courage  to  appear  before  the  public  again 
with  a  farce  entitled  A  Will  or  No  Will;  or,  a 
Bone  for  the  Lawyers.  In  April,  1748,  he  pro- 
duced The  Club  of  Fortrcne  Hunters;  or,  the 
Widow  Bewitched.  This,  like  its  predecessoi-s, 
was  anything  but  a  success.  At  the  end  of  the 
season  he  accepted  an  engagement  from  Sheri- 
dan in  Dublin  Theatre  at  a  high  figure,  but 


214 


CHAELES   MACKLIN. 


they  soon  disagreed,  and  he  returned  to  Eng- 
land and  was  for  a  time  manager  of  a  com- 
pany of  comedians  at  Chester.  In  the  winter 
of  1750  he  returned  to  London,  and  was  at 
once  engaged  at  Covent  Garden.  For  three 
seasons  he  performed  at  Covent  Garden,  and 
on  the  20th  December,  1753,  he  took  his  fare- 
well of  the  stage,  having  determined,  old  as 
he  was,  to  adojit  a  new  career  in  life. 

This  was  the  establishment  of  a  tavern  in 
Covent  Garden  on  a  new  principle.  Ladies 
were  invited  to  attend  it,  lecture  -  rooms 
were  fitted  up,  and  lectures  on  subjects  in 
arts,  sciences,  histoiy,  literature,  &c.,  were 
delivered.  At  first  the  novelty  of  the  thing 
caused  it  to  appear  successful,  but  after  a 
time  its  utter  failure  became  only  too  appar- 
ent, and  Macklin  had  to  retui-n  to  the  stage. 
In  1757  he  went  to  Ireland  with  Barry.  On 
December  28,  1758,  his  wife  died,  and  in 
December,  1759,  he  returned  to  Drury  Lane. 
Soon  after  this  appeared  tlie  fii'st  of  his 
really  successful  plays.  Love  d  la  Mode.  This 
met  with  opposition  for  a  night  or  two,  but  it 
forced  its  way  into  favour,  and  was  afterwards, 
according  to  a  writer  in  The  European  Maga- 
zine, "  received  with  unbounded  applause." 

Still  continuing  on  the  stage,  in  1761  he 
2-)roduced  The  Mamed  Libertine, a.  comparative 
failure;  and  1764  his  master-piece  The  True- 
born  Scotchman,  afterwards  called  The  Man 
of  the  World.  In  November,  1767,  appeai-ed 
his  farce  The  Irish  Fine  Lady,  which  lived 
only  a  single  night.  On  the  28th  of  Novem- 
ber, 1788,  while  performing  in  the  character 
of  Sir  Pertinax  MacSycophant,  his  memory 
failed  him.  On  the  10th  January,  1789,  the 
same  thing  happened  while  he  was  engaged 
with  Shylock,  but  after  an  aff'ecting  speech  to 
the  audience  he  recovered  himself  and  com- 
pleted his  part.  On  the  7th  of  May  following 
he  attempted  to  perform  Shylock  in  his  own 
benefit,  but  another  actor  had  to  take  his 
place,  and  he  was  led  off  the  stage  never  to 
appear  on  it  again.  At  the  age  of  almost  a 
hundred  he  was  thus  thrown  upon  the  world, 
but  his  friends  stood  by  him,  and  a  subscrip- 
tion was  started  for  the  publication  of  his  two 
popular  pieces,  Love  a  la  Mode  and  The  Man 
of  the  World.  This  produced  altogether  over 
^2600,  with  which  an  annuity  was  purchased 
and  his  more  immediate  wants  supplied.  For 
the  remainder  of  his  life  he  visited  the  tlieatre 
almost  every  night,  where  he  sat  unable  to 
liear  and  apparently  unconscious  of  anything. 
At  last,  at  the  great  age  of  a  hundred  and 
seven  years,  his  life  flickered  out  on  the  1 1th 


of  July,  1797.     He  was  buried  in  St.  Paul's, 
Covent  Garden. 

Of  Mackliu's  writings  only  his  Love  a.  la 
Mode  and  The  Man  of  the  World  have  lived, 
and  these  are  almost  as  well  known  to-day  as 
when  the  author  died.  Their  language  is  plain 
and  natural  in  the  extreme,  and  the  deline- 
ation of  character  which  they  contain  is  of 
the  highest  kind.  In  all  the  wide  field  of 
dramatic  literatm-e  we  know  of  nothing  to 
excel  Sir  Pertinax  MacSycophant,  a  character 
which  the  people  of  Scotland  have  long  ago 
wisely  refused  to  look  on  as  a  satire  of  them- 
selves, but  as  a  type  of  a  class  of  men  that 
may  be  found  in  every  nation  under  the  sun. 
Sir  Archibald  MacSarcasm  in  Love  cL  la  Mode 
is  also  a  capital  character;  as  are  also  Sir 
Callaghan  O'Brallaghan  and  the  little  Jew 
Mordecai.  Betty  too,  the  sly  mischief-maker, 
so  virtuous,  yet  so  full  of  evil  innuendos,  is  also 
true  to  nature ;  and,  indeed,  scarcely  a  charac- 
ter in  the  two  plays  but  is  worthy  of  careful 
study  and  first-class  acting.] 


A  MISCHIEF-MAKER.^ 

[Sidney  is  a  chaplain  in  the  house  of  Sir 
Pertinax  MacSycophant.  Constantia  is  a  poor 
dependant  of  the  family  whom  everybody,  in- 
cluding Charles  Egerton  the  son  of  Sir  Per- 
tinax, likes  so  well  that  the  maid  Betty  deter- 
mines to  find  some  fault  in  her,  and  now  she 
at  length  thinks  she  has  good  foundation  for 
a  story  which  she  tells  the  chaplain  as  follows.] 

Sidney  solus.    Enter  Betty. 

Betty.  {R^mning  up  to  Sidney.)  I  beg  pardon 
for  my  intrusion,  sir ;  I  hope,  sir,  I  don't  dis- 
turb your  reverence. 

Sid.  Not  in  the  least,  Mrs.  Betty. 

Betty.  I  humbly  beg  you  will  excuse  me, 
sir ;  but  I  wanted  to  break  my  mind  to  your 
honour  about  a  scruple  that  lies  upon  my  con- 
science ;  and  indeed  I  should  not  have  pre- 
sumed to  trouble  you,  sir,  but  that  I  know 
you  are  my  young  master's  friend,  and  my 
old  master's  friend,  and,  indeed,  a  friend  to 
the  whole  family  {curtsying  very  low);  for,  to 
give  you  your  due,  sir,  you  are  as  good  a 
preacher  as  ever  went  into  a  pulpit. 

Sid.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  do  you  think  so,  Mi"s. 
Betty  \ 

Betty.  Ay,  in  truth  do  I ;  and  as  good  a 

1  This  and  the  next  scene  are  from  The  Man  of  the 
World. 


CHARLES   MACKLIN. 


215 


gentleman,  too,  as  ever  came  into  a  family,  | 
and  one  that  never  gives  a  servant  a  bad  word, 
nor  that  does  any  one  an  ill  tui-n,  neither  be-  : 
hind  their  back  nor  before  their  face.  ! 

Sid.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  why,  you  are  a  mighty  , 
well-spoken  woman,  Mrs.  Betty ;   and  I  am  \ 
mightily  beholden  to  you  for  your  good  char- 
acter of  me. 

Betty.  Indeed,  it  is  no  more  than  you  de- 
serve, and  what  all  the  world  and  all  the  ser- 
vants say  of  you. 

Sid.  I  am  much  obliged  to  them,  Mrs.  Betty; 
but,  pray,  what  are  your  commands  with  me  \ 

Betty.  Why,  I'll  tell  you,  sir; — to  be  sure, 
I  am  but  a  servant,  as  a  body  may  say,  and 
every  tub  should  stand  upon  its  own  bottom ; 
but — {she  looks  about  cautiously) — my  young 
master  is  now  in  the  china-room,  in  close  con- 
ference with  Miss  Constantia.  I  know  what 
they  are  about,  but  that  is  no  business  of 
mine ;  and,  therefore,  I  made  bold  to  listen  a 
little ;  because,  you  know,  sir,  one  would  be 
sure,  before  one  took  away  anybody's  reputa- 
tion. 

Sid.  Very  true,  Mrs.  Betty;  very  true,  in- 
deed. 

Betty.  O  !  heavens  forbid  that  I  should  take 
away  any  young  woman's  good  name^,  unless 
I  had  a  good  reason  for  it ;  but,  sir  {with  great 
solemnity),  if  I  am  in  this  place  alive,  as  I 
listened  with  my  ear  close  to  the  door  I  heard 
my  young  maste}'  ask  Miss  Constantia  the 
plain  marriage  question ;  upon  which  I  started 
and  trembled,  nay,  my  veiy  conscience  stirred 
within  me  so,  that  I  could  not  help  peeping 
through  the  key-hole. 

Sid.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  and  so  your  conscience 
made  you  peep  through  the  key-hole,  Mrs. 
Betty? 

Betty.  It  did,  indeed,  sir;  and  there  I  saw 
my  young  master  upon  his  knees — Lord  bless 
us !  and  what  do  you  think  he  was  doing  ] — 
kissing  her  hand  as  if  he  would  eat  it;  and 
protesting  and  assuring  her  he  knew  that  you, 
sir,  would  consent  to  the  match ;  and  then  the 
tears  ran  down  her  cheeks  as  fast — 

Sid.  Ay! 

Betty.  They  did  indeed.  I  would  not  tell 
your  reverence  a  lie  for  the  world. 

Sid.  I  believe  it,  Mrs.  Betty;  and  what  did 
Constantia  say  to  all  this? 

Betty.  Oh  ! — oh  !  she  is  sly  enough  ;  she 
looks  as  if  butter  would  not  melt  in  her  mouth; 
but  all  is  not  gold  that  glitters ;  smooth  water, 
you  know,  sir,  runs  deepest.  I  am  sorry  my 
young  master  makes  such  a  fool  of  himself; 
but,  um  ! — take  my  word  for  it,  he  is  not  the 


man ;  for,  though  she  looks  as  modest  a.s  a 
maid  at  a  christening — {hesitating) — yet — ah  ! 
— when  sweethearts  meet  in  the  dusk  of  the 
evening,  and  stay  together  a  whole  hour  in  the 
dark  grove,  and  embrace,  and  kiss,  and  weep 
at  parting — why,  then,  you  know,  sir,  it  is 
easy  to  guess  all  the  rest. 

Sid.  Why,  did  Constantia  meet  anybody  in 
this  manner  ? 

Betty.  {Starting  xoith  surprise.)  O  !  heavens ! 
I  beg,  sir,  you  will  not  misapprehend  me ;  for 
I  assure  you  I  do  not  believe  they  did  any 
harm ;  that  is,  not  in  the  grove ;  at  least  not 
when  I  was  there ;  and  she  may  be  honestly 
married  for  aught  I  know.  O !  lud,  sir,  I 
would  not  say  an  ill  thing  of  Miss  Constantia 
for  the  world.  I  only  say  that  they  did  meet 
in  the  dark  walk ;  and  I  think  I  know  what's 
what,  when  I  see  it,  as  well  as  another. 

Sid.  No  doubt  you  do,  Mrs.  Betty. 

Betty.  {Going  and  returning.)  I  do  indeed, 
sir;  and  so,  your  servant,  sir.  But  I  hope 
your  worship  won't  mention  my  name  in  this 
business,  or  that  you  had  an  item  from  me. 

Sid.  I  shall  not,  Mrs.  Betty. 

Betty.  For  indeed,  sir,  I  am  no  busybody, 
nor  do  I  love  fending  nor  proving;  and  I 
assure  you,  sir,  I  hate  all  tittling  and  tattling, 
and  gossiping,  and  backbiting,  and  taking 
away  a  person's  good  name. 

Sid.  I  observe  you  do,  Mrs.  Betty. 

Betty.  I  do  indeed,  sir;  I  am  the  farthest 
from  it  in  the  world. 

Sid.  I  dare  say  you  are. 

Betty.  I  am  indeed,  sir ;  and  so  your  humble 
servant. 

Sid.  Your  servant,  Mrs.  Betty. 

Betty.  {Aside,  in  great  exidtation.)  So !  I 
see  he  believes  every  word  I  say — that's  charm- 
ing.   I'll  do  her  business  for  her,  I'm  resolved. 

[Exit. 

[But  he  did  not  believe  her,  and  it  turned 
out  that  the  gentleman  Constantia  met  in  the 
grove  was  her  father,  returned  after  a  long 
absence,  and  hiding  from  his  creditors.] 


HOW   TO   GET   ON   IN   THE   WORLD. 

[Sir  Pertinax  lectures  his  son  Charles  Eger- 
ton  on  his  conduct  towards  Lord  Lumbercourt, 
whose  daughter  he  intends  him  to  marry.] 

Scene,  a  Library. 
Enter  Sir  Pertinax  and  Egerton. 
Sir  P.  {In  warm  resentment.)  Zounds !  sir. 


216 


CHARLES   MACKLIN. 


I  will  not  hear  a  word  about  it :  I  insist  upon 
it  you  are  wrong ;  you  should  have  paid  your 
court  till  my  lord,  and  not  have  scrupled  swal- 
lowing a  bumper  or  twa,  or  twenty  till  oblige 
him. 

Eger.  Sir,  I  did  drink  his  toast  in  a  bumper. 

/Sir  P.  Yes,  you  did;  but  how,  how?  just 
as  a  bairn  takes  physic;  with  aversions  and 
wry  faces,  which  my  lord  observed  :  then,  to 
mend  the  matter,  the  moment  that  he  and  the 
colonel  got  intill  a  drunken  dispute  about  reli- 
gion, you  slyly  slunged  away. 

Uger.  I  thought,  sir,  it  was  time  to  go  when 
my  lord  insisted  upon  half- pint  bumpers. 

Sir  P.  Sir,  that  was  not  levelled  at  you,  but 
at  the  colonel,  in  order  to  try  his  bottom;  but 
they  aw  agreed  that  you  and  I  should  drink 
out  of  sma'  glasses. 

Eger.  But,  sir,  I  beg  pardon:  I  did  not 
choose  to  drink  any  more. 

Bir  P.  But,  zoons  !  sir,  I  tell  you  there  was 
a  necessity  for  your  drinking  more. 

Eger.  A  necessity !  in  what  respect,  pray, 
sir? 

Sir  P.  Why,  sir,  I  have  a  certain  point  to 
carry,  independent  of  the  lawyers,  with  my 
lord,  in  this  agreement  of  your  marriage; 
about  which  I  am  afraid  we  shall  have  a  warm 
squabble ;  and  therefore  I  wanted  your  assis- 
tance in  it. 

Eger.  But  how,  sir,  could  my  drinking  con- 
tribute to  assist  you  in  your  squabble  ? 

Sir  P.  Yes,  sir,  it  would  have  contributed 
— and  greatly  have  contributed  to  assist  me. 

Eger.  How  so,  sir? 

Sir  P.  Nay,  sir,  it  might  have  prevented 
the  squabble  entirely ;  for  as  my  lord  is  proud 
of  you  for  a  son-in-law,  and  is  fond  of  your 
little  French  songs,  your  stories,  and  your  bon- 
mots  when  you  are  in  the  humour;  and  guin 
you  had  but  staid,  and  been  a  little  jolly,  and 
drank  half  a  score  bumpers  with  him,  till 
he  had  got  a  little  tipsy,  I  am  sure,  when  we 
had  him  in  that  mood,  we  might  have  settled 
the  point  as  I  could  wish  it  among  ourselves, 
before  the  lawyers  came :  but  now,  sir,  I  do 
not  ken  what  will  be  the  consequence. 

Eger.  But  when  a  man  is  intoxicated,  would 
that  have  been  a  seasonable  time  to  settle 
business,  sir? 

Sir  P.  The  most  seasonable,  sir ;  for,  sir, 
when  my  lord  is  in  his  cups  his  suspicion  is 
asleep,  and  his  heart  is  aw  jollity,  fun,  and 
guid  fellow.ship;  and,  sir,  can  there  be  a  hap- 
pier moment  than  that  for  a  bargain,  or  to 
settle  a  dispute  with  a  friend  ?  What  is  it  you 
shrug  up  your  shoulders  at,  sir? 


Eger.  At  my  own  ignorance,  sir ;  for  I  under- 
stand neither  the  philosophy  nor  the  morality 
of  your  doctrine. 

Sir  P.  I  know  you  do  not,  sir ;  and,  what  is 
worse,  you  never  wull  understand  it,  as  you 
proceed;  in  one  word,  Charles,  I  have  often 
told  you,  and  now  again  I  tell  you,  once  for 
aw,  that  the  manoeuvres  of  pliability  are  as 
necessary  to  rise  in  the  world  as  wrangling 
and  logical  subtlety  are  to  rise  at  the  bar: 
why,  you  see,  su-,  I  have  acquired  a  noble  for- 
tune, a  princely  fortune :  and  how  do  you 
think  I  raised  it? 

Eger.  Doubtless,  sir,  by  your  abilities. 

Sir  P.  Doubtless,  sir,  you  are  a  blockhead : 
nae,  sir,  I'll  tell  you  how  I  raised  it ;  sir,  I 
raised  it — by  booing  {boxes  ridiculously  low), 
by  booing :  sir,  I  never  could  stand  straight 
in  the  presence  of  a  great  mon,  but  always 
booed,  and  booed,  and  booed — as  it  were  by 
instinct. 

Eger.  How  do  you  mean  by  instinct,  sir? 

Sir  P.  How  do  I  mean  by  instinct !  Why, 
sir,  I  mean  by — by — by  the  instinct  of  interest, 
sir,  which  is  the  universal  instinct  of  mankind. 
Sir,  it  is  wonderful  to  think  what  a  cordial, 
what  an  amicable — nay,  what  an  infallible  in- 
fluence booing  has  upon  the  pride  and  vanity 
of  human  nature.  Charles,  answer  me  sin- 
cerely, have  you  a  mind  to  be  convinced  of 
the  force  of  my  doctrine  by  example  and  de- 
monstration ? 

Eger.  Certainly,  sir. 

Sir  P.  Then,  sir,  as  the  greatest  favour  I 
can  confer  upon  you,  I'll  give  you  a  short 
sketch  of  the  stages  of  my  booing,  as  an  ex- 
citement, and  a  landmark  for  you  to  boo  by, 
and  as  an  infallible  nostrum  for  a  man  of  the 
world  to  rise  in  the  world. 

Eger.  Sir,  I  shall  be  proud  to  profit  by  your 
experience. 

Sir  P.  Vary  weel,  sir ;  sit  ye  down,  then, 
sit  you  down  here.  {They  sit  down.)  And 
now,  sir,  you  must  recall  to  your  thoughts 
that  your  grandfather  was  a  mon  whose  penu- 
rious income  of  captain's  half -pay  was  the  sum 
total  of  his  fortune  ;  and,  sir,  aw  my  provision 
fra  him  was  a  modicum  of  Latin,  an  expert- 
ness  in  arithmetic,  and  a  short  system  of 
worldly  counsel,  the  principal  ingredients  of 
which  were,  a  persevering  industry,  a  rigid 
economy,  a  smooth  tongue,  a  pliability  of 
temper,  and  a  constant  attention  to  make 
every  mon  well  pleased  with  himself. 

Eger.  Very  prudent  advice,  sir. 

Sir  P.  Therefore,  sir,  I  lay  it  before  you. 
Now,  sir,  with  these  materials  I  set  out  a  raw- 


CHAELES   MACKLIN. 


217 


boned  stripling  fra  the  north,  to  try  my  for- 
tune with  them  here  in  the  soutli ;  and  my 
first  step  in  the  world  was  a  beggarly  clerk- 
ship in  Sawney  Gordon's  counting-house,  here 
in  the  city  of  London :  which  you'll  say  afforded 
but  a  barren  sort  of  a  prospect. 

Eger.  It  was  not  a  very  fertile  one,  indeed, 
sir. 

Sir  P.  The  reverse,  the  reverse :  weel,  sir, 
seeing  myself  in  this  unprofitable  situation,  I 
reflected  deeply;  I  cast  about  my  thoughts 
morning,  noon,  and  night,  and  marked  every 
mon,  and  every  mode  of  prosperity ;  at  last  I 
concluded  that  a  matrimonial  adventure,  pru- 
dently conducted,  would  be  the  readiest  gait 
I  could  gang  for  the  bettering  of  my  condi- 
tion ;  and  accordingly  I  set  about  it.  Now, 
sir,  in  this  pursuit,  beauty  !  beauty  !  ah !  beauty 
often  struck  my  een,  and  played  about  my 
heart,  and  fluttered,  and  beat,  and  knocked, 
and  knocked,  but  the  devil  an  entrance  I  ever 
let  it  get;  for  I  observed,  sir,  that  beauty  is, 
generally, — a  proud,  vain,  saucy,  expensive, 
impertinent  sort  of  a  commodity. 

Eger.  Very  justly  observed. 

Sir  P.  And  therefore,  sir,  I  left  it  to  pro- 
digals and  coxcombs,  that  could  afford  to  pay 
for  it ;  and  in  its  stead,  sir,  mark  ! — I  looked 
out  for  an  ancient,  weel- jointured,  super- 
annuated dowager;  a  consumptive,  toothless, 
phthisicy,  wealthy  widow ;  or  a  shrivelled, 
cadaverous  piece  of  deformity,  in  the  shape  of 
an  izzard,  or  an  appersi-and — or,  in  short, 
aiuything,  ainything  that  had  the  siller — the 
siller — for  that,  sir,  was  the  north  star  of  my 
affections.  Do  you  take  me,  sir]  was  nae  that 
right? 

Eger.  O !  doubtless,  doubtless,  sir. 

Sir  P.  Now,  sir,  where  do  you  tliink  I 
ganged  to  look  for  this  woman  with  the  siller? 
nae  till  court,  nae  till  jilayhouses  or  assemblies; 
nae,  sir,  I  ganged  till  the  kirk,  till  the  Ana- 
baptist, Independent,  Bradlonian,  and  Muggle- 
tonian  meetings;  tiU  the  morning  and  even- 
ing service  of  churches  and  chapels  of  ease, 
and  till  the  midnight,  melting,  conciliating 
love-feasts  of  the  Methodists  ;  and  there,  sir, 
at  last  I  fell  upon  an  old,  slighted,  antiquated, 
musty  maiden,  that  looked — ha,  ha,  ha!  she 
looked  just  like  a  skeleton  in  a  surgeon's  glass 
case.  Now,  sir,  this  miserable  object  was 
religiously  angry  with  herself  and  aw  the 
world :  had  nae  comfort  but  in  metaphysical 
visions  and  supernatural  deliriums — ha,  ha, 
ha !  Sir,  she  was  as  mad — as  mad  as  a  Bed- 
lamite. 

Eger.  Not  improbable,  sir :  there  are  num- 


bers of   poor  creatures  in  the   same   condi- 
tion. 

Sir  P.  O !  numbers — numbers.  Now,  sir, 
this  cracked  creature  used  to  pray,  and  sing, 
and  sigh,  and  groan,  and  weep,  and  wail,  and 
gnash  her  teeth  constantly  morning  and  even- 
ing at  the  tabernacle  in  Moorfields.  And  as 
soon  as  I  found  she  had  the  siller,  aha !  good 
traith,  I  plumped  me  down  upon  my  knees, 
close  by  her — cheek  by  jowl — and  prayed,  and 
sighed,  and  sung,  and  groaned,  and  gnashed 
my  teeth  as  vehemently  ;us  she  could  do  for 
the  life  of  her;  ay,  and  turned  vip  the  whites 
of  mine  een,  till  the  strings  awmost  cracked 
again.  I  watched  her  motions,  handed  her 
till  her  chair,  waited  on  her  home,  got  most 
religiously  intimate  with  her  in  a  week; 
married  her  in  a  fortnight,  buried  her  in  a 
month,  touched  the  siller,  and  with  a  deep 
suit  of  mourning,  a  melancholy  port,  a  sorrow- 
ful visage,  and  a  joyful  heart,  I  began  the 
world  again  (rises) ;  and  this,  sir,  was  the  first 
boo,  that  is,  the  first  effectual  boo,  I  ever  made 
till  the  vanity  of  human  nature.  Now,  sir,  do 
you  understand  this  doctrine? 

Eger.  Perfectly  well,  sir. 

Sir  P.  Ay,  but  was  it  not  right?  was  it  not 
ingenious,  and  weel  hit  off? 

Eger.  Certainly,  sir :  extremely  well. 

Sir  P.  My  next  boo,  sir,  was  till  your  ain 
mother,  whom  I  ran  away  with  fra  the  board- 
ing-school ;  by  the  interest  of  whose  family  I 
got  a  guid  smart  place  in  the  treasury ;  and, 
sir,  my  vary  next  step  was  intill  parliament, 
the  which  I  entered  with  as  ardent  and  as 
determined  an  ambition  as  ever  agitated  the 
heart  of  Ctesar  himself.  Sir,  I  booed,  and 
watched,  and  hearkened,  and  ran  about,  back- 
wards and  forwards,  and  attended,  and  dangled 
upon  the  then  great  mon,  till  I  got  into  the 
vary  bowels  of  his  confidence ;  and  then,  sir, 
I  wriggled,  and  wrought,  and  wriggled,  till  I 
wriggled  myself  among  the  very  thick  of 
them.  Ha !  I  got  my  snack  of  the  clothing, 
the  foraging,  the  contracts,  the  lottery  tickets, 
and  all  the  political  bonuses,  till  at  length,  sir, 
I  became  a  much  wealthier  man  than  one 
half  of  the  golden  calves  I  had  been  so  long 
a-booing  to :  and  was  nae  that  booing  to  some 
purpose  ? 

Eger.  It  was  indeed,  sir. 

.S'iV  P.  But  are  you  convinced  of  the  guid 
effects  and  of  the  utility  of  booing? 

Eger.  Thoroughly,  sir. 

Sir  P.  Sir,  it  is  infallible.  But,  Charles, 
ah !  while  I  was  thus  booing,  and  wriggling, 
and  raising  this  princely  fortune,  ah !  I  met 


218 


CHAELES  MACKLIN. 


with  many  heartsores  and  disappointments 
fi-a  the  want  of  literature,  eloquence,  and  other 
popular  abeeleties.  Sir,  guin  I  could  but  have 
spoken  in  the  house,  I  should  have  done  the 
deed  in  half  the  time,  but  the  instant  I  opened 
my  mouth  there  they  aw  fell  a-laughing  at 
me ;  aw  which  deficiencies,  sir,  I  determined, 
at  any  expense,  to  have  supplied  by  the  polished 
education  of  a  son,  who  I  hoped  would  one 
day  raise  the  house  of  MacSycophant  till  the 
highest  pitch  of  ministerial  ambition.  This, 
sir,  is  my  plan :  I  have  done  my  part  of  it, 
nature  has  done  hers;  you  are  popular,  you 
are  eloquent,  aw  parties  like  and  respect  you, 
and  now,  sir,  it  only  remains  for  you  to  be 
directed — completion  follows. 

[Egerton,  however,  was  not  to  be  directed 
to  please  his  father,  but  married  Constantia, 
after  some  plotting  and  counter-plotting  among 
the  principal  parties  concerned.] 


A  BEVY   OF   LOVERS. 

(from  "love  a  la  mode.") 
Charlotte  solus.     Enter  Mooidecai. 

Mor.  {Singing  an  Italian  air,  and  address- 
ing Charlotte  fantastically.)  Voi  sete  molto 
cortese  !  anima  mia !  Here  let  me  kneel  and 
pay  my  softest  adoration  ;  and  thus,  and  thus, 
in  amorous  transport,  breathe  my  last ! 

(Kisses  her  hand.) 

Char.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  softly,  softly !  You 
would  not,  surely,  breathe  your  last  yet,  Mr. 
Mordecai  ] 

Mor.  Why,  no,  madam ;  I  would  live  a  little 
longer  for  your  sake.  {Boiving  very  loiv.) 

Char.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  you  are  infinitely  polite; 
but  a  truce  with  your  gallantry.  Why,  you 
are  as  gay  as  the  sun;  I  think  I  never  saw 
anything  better  fancied  than  that  suit  of  yours, 
Mr.  Mordecai. 

Mor.  Ha,  ha  ! — a-well  enough ;  just  as  my 
tailor  fancied.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  Do  you  like  it, 
madam  ? 

Char.  Quite  elegant  I  I  don't  know  any 
one  about  town  deserves  the  title  of  beau 
better  than  Mr.  Mordecai. 

Mor.  Oh  !  dear  madam,  you  are  very  oblig- 
ing. 

Char.  I  think  you  are  called  Beau  Mor- 
decai by  everybody. 

Mor.  Yes,  madam  ;  they  do  distinguish  me 


by  that  title,  but  T  don't  think  I  merit  the 
honour. 

Char.  Nobody  moi'e ;  for  I  think  you  are 
always  by  far  the  finest  man  in  town.  But, 
do  you  know  that  I  never  heai'd  of  your  ex- 
traordinary court,  the  other  night  at  the  opera, 
to  Miss  Sprightly  ? 

Mor.  Oh,  heavens  !  madam,  how  can  you  be 
so  severe?  That  the  woman  has  designs,  I 
steadfastly  believe  ;  but  as  to  me — oh  ! 

Char.  Ha,  ha,  ha  I  Nay,  nay,  you  must  not 
deny  it,  for  my  intelligence  is  from  very  good 
hands. 

Mor.  Pray,  who  may  that  be  ? 

Char.  Sir  Archy  MacSarcasm. 

Mor.  Oh,  shocking !  the  common  Pasquiu  of 
the  town ;  besides,  madam,  you  know  he's  my 
rival,  and  not  very  remarkable  for  his  veracity 
in  his  nai-rations. 

Char.  Ha,  ha,  ha  I  I  cannot  say  he's  a  reli- 
gious observer  of  truth,  but  his  humour  always 
amends  for  his  invention.  You  must  allow  he 
has  humour,  Mr.  Mordecai. 

Mor.  O  cuor  mio  !  How  can  you  think  so? 
Bating  his  scandal,  dull,  dull  as  an  alderman 
after  six  pounds  of  turtle,  four  bottles  of  port, 
and  twelve  pipes  of  tobacco. 

Char.  Ha,  ha,  ha  I  Oh !  surfeiting,  sui-feit- 
ing! 

Mor.  The  man,  indeed,  has  something  droll, 
something  ridiculous  in  him  ;  his  abominable 
Scots  accent,  his  grotesque  visage  almost 
buried  in  snufi",  the  roll  of  his  eyes  and  twist 
of  his  mouth,  his  strange,  inhuman  laugh,  his 
tremendous  periwig,  and  his  manner  alto- 
gether, indeed,  has  something  so  caricaturely 
risible  in  it,  that — ha,  ha,  ha! — may  I  die, 
madam,  if  I  don't  take  him  for  a  mountebank- 
doctor  at  a  Dutch  fair. 

Char.  Oh,  oh  !  what  a  picture  has  he  drawn  ! 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Ser.  Sir  Archy  MacSarcasm  is  below,  madam. 

Char.  Show  him  up.  \_Exit  servant. 

Mor.  Don't  you  think,  madam,  he  is  a  horrid, 
foul-mouthed,  uncouth  fellow  ?  He  is  worse 
to  me,  madam,  than  assafoetida,  or  a  tallow- 
chandler's  shop  in  the  dog-days;  his  filthy 
high  -  dried  poisons  me,  and  his  scandal  is 
grosser  than  a  hackney  news-writer's  ;  madam, 
he  is  as  nuich  despised  by  his  own  country- 
men as  by  the  rest  of  the  world.  The  better 
sort  of  Scotland  never  keep  him  company; 
but  that  is  entre  nous,  entre  nous. 

Sir  A.  ( Without.)  Randol,  bid  Sawney  be 
here  wi'  the  chariot  at  aught  o'clock  exactly. 


CHARLES   MACKJ.IN. 


219 


Enter  Sir  Archy  MacSarcasm.     {Mordecai 
runs  up  to  embrace  him.) 

Ha,  ha,  ha !  my  chield  o'  ch'cumcisiou,  gie's  a 
wag  o'  yer  loof ;  hoo  d'ye  do,  my  bonny  Ees- 
raelite  1 

Mor.  Always  at  your  service,  Sir  Archy. 
He  stinks  worse  than  a  Scotch  snutf-shop. 

{Aside.) 

Sir  A.  Weel,  Moi'decai,  I  see  you  are  as 
deeligent  in  the  service  o'  yer  mistress  as  in 
the  service  o'  yer  leuking-glass,  for  yer  face 
and  yer  tlioughts  are  a'  turned  upon  the  ane 
or  the  ither. 

Mor.  And  I  see  your  wit,  Sir  Archy,  Uke 
a  lawyer's  tongue,  will  never  retain  its  usual 
politeness  and  good-nature. 

Char.  {Coming  forward.)  Ha,  ha,  ha !  Civil 
and  witty  on  both  sides,  Sir  Archy,  your  most 
obedient.  {Curtseys.) 

Sir  A.  Ten  thoosand  pardons,  madam,  I 
didna  observe  ye ;  I  hope  I  see  yer  ladyship 
weel.     Ah  !  ye  look  like  a  diveenity. 

{Bowing  aivkwardly  and  loio.) 

Char.  Sir  Archy,  this  is  immensely  gallant. 

Sir  A.  "Weel,  madam,  I  see  my  friend 
Mordecai  here  is  determined  to  tak'  awa'  the 
prize  frae'  us  a'.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  He  is  tricked 
out  in  a'  the  colours  o'  the  rainboo. 

Char.  ]VIr.  Mordecai  is  always  well  dressed, 
Sir  Archy. 

Sir  A.  Upon  honour,  he  is  as  fine  as  a  jay. 
Turn  about,  mon,  turn  about ;  let  us  view  yer 
finery ;  stap  alang,  and  let  us  see  yer  shapes ; 
he  has  a  bonny  march  wi'  him ;  vary  weel, 
vary  elegant.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  Guid  troth !  I 
think  I  never  saw  a  tooth  -  drawer  better 
dressed  in  a'  my  life. 

{Admiring  Mordecai's  dress.) 

Char.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Mor.  You  are  very  polite,  sir. 

Char.  But,  Sir  Archy,  what  has  become  of 
my  Irish  lover,  your  friend  Sir  Callaghan  ?  I 
hope  he  dines  here. 

Sir  A.  Ah,  ha  !  guid  faith,  will  he  !  I  hae 
brought  him  alang  wi'  me. 

Sir  C.  (  Without.)  Is  Sir  Archibald  MacSar- 
casm and  the  lady  this  way,  do  you  sa}',  young 
man? 

Servant.  {  Without.)  Yes,  sir. 

Sir  C.  {  Without.)  Then,  I'll  trouble  you  with 
no  further  ceremony. 

Enter  Sir  Callaghan  O'Brallaghan. 

Madam,  I  am  your  most  devoted  and  most 
obedient  humble  servant,  and  am  proud  to 


have  the  honour  of  kis.sing  your  fair  hand  this 
morning.  {Salutes  Charlotte.) 

Char.  Sir  Callaghan,  your  humble  servant. 
I  am  sorry  to  hear  we  are  likely  to  lose  you. 
I  was  in  hop^s  the  campaign  had  been  quite 
over  in  Germany  for  this  winter. 

Sir  C.  Yes,  madam,  it  was  quite  over,  but 
it  began  again :  a  true  genius  never  loves  to 
quit  the  field  till  he  has  left  himself  nothing 
to  do;  for  then,  you  know,  madam,  he  can 
keej)  it  with  more  safety. 

Sir  A.  Well,  but.  Sir  Callaghan,  just  as  ye 
entered  the  apiirtment  the  lady  was  urging 
she  should  like  it  mightily  gin  ye  wad  favour 
her  wi'  a  slight  narrative  of  the  late  transac- 
tions and  battles  in  Germany. 

Char.  If  Sir  Callaghan  would  be  so  obliging. 

Sir  C.  Oh  !  dear  madam,  don't  ax  me. 

Char.  Sir,  I  beg  pardon ;  I  would  not  press 
anything  that  I  thought  might  be  disagi-ee- 
able  to  you. 

*S'iV  C.  Oh  !  dear  madam,  it  is  not  for  that ; 
but  it  rebuts  a  man  of  honour  to  be  talking 
to  ladies  of  battles,  and  sieges,  and  skirmages ; 
it  looks  like  gasconading  and  making  the  fan- 
faron.  Besides,  madam,  I  give  you  my  honour, 
there  is  no  such  thing  in  nature  as  making  a 
trvie  description  of  a  battle. 

Char.  How  so,  sir? 

Sir  C.  Why,  madam,  there  is  much  doing 
everywhere,  there  is  no  knowing  what  is  done 
anywhere ;  for  every  man  has  his  own  part  to 
look  aftei-,  which  is  as  much  a.s  he  can  do, 
without  minding  what  other  jjeople  are  about. 
Then,  madam,  there  is  such  drumming  and 
trumpeting,  firing  and  smoking,  fighting  and 
rattling  everywhere;  and  such  an  uproar  of 
com^age  and  slaughter  in  eveiy  man's  mind ; 
and  siich  a  delightful  confusion  altogether,  that 
you  can  no  more  give  an  account  of  it  than 
you  can  of  the  stai-s  in  the  sky. 

Sir  A.  As  I  shall  answer  it,  I  think  it  a 
very  descriptive  account  that  he  gives  of  a 
battle. 

Char.  Admirable  !  and  very  entertaining. 

Mor.  Oh,  delightful ! 

Sir  A .  Mordecai,  ask  him  some  questions ; 
to  him,  to  him,  mon  !  hae  a  little  fun  wi'  him; 
smoke  him,  smoke  him  ;  rally  him,  mon,  rally 
him.  {Apart  to  Mordecai.) 

Mor.  I'll  do  it,  I'll  do  it ;  yes,  I  will  smoke 
the  captain.  {Apart.)  Well,  and  pray.  Sir 
Callaghan,  how  many  might  you  kill  in  a 
battle? 

Sir  C.  Sir? 

Mor.  I  say,  su-,  how  many  might  you  have 
killed  in  any  one  battle  ? 


220 


WALTER  HUSSEY   BURGH. 


Sir  C.  Kill !  Hum  !  Why,  I  generally  kill 
more  in  a  battle  than  a  coward  would  choose 
to  look  upon,  or  than  an  impertinent  fellow 
would  be  able  to  eat.  Ha !  are  you  answered, 
Mr.  Mordecai? 

Mor.  Yes — yes,  sir,  I  am  answered.  He  is 
a  devilish  droll  fellow ;  vastly  queer. 

Sir  A.  Yes,  he  is  vary  queer.  But  ye  were 
vary  sharp  upon  him.  Odswuus !  at  him 
again,  at  him  again;  have  another  cut  at 
him.  {Apart. 

Mor.  Yes,  I  will  have  another  cut  at  him. 

\_Apart. 

Sir  A.  Do,  do.  He'll  bring  himsel'  intill  a 
d d  scrape  presently.  [Aside. 

Mor.  {Going  to  Sir  C.  and  sneering  at  him.) 
He,  he,  he  !  But,  harkye  !  Sir  Callaghan — he, 
he,  he ! — give  me  leave  to  tell  you  now,  if  I 
were  a  general — 

Sir  C.  You  a  general !  'Faith !  then,  you 
would  make  a  very  pretty  general.  {Turtis 
Mordecai  about.)  Pray,  madam,  look  at  the 
general.     Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

All.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Sir  C.  Oh !  my  dear  Mi".  Mordecai,  be 
advised,  and  don't  prate  about  generals ;  it  is 
a  very  hard  trade  to  learn,  and  requires  being 
in  the  field  late  and  eai'ly,  a  great  many  frosty 
nights  and  scorching  days,  to  be  able  to  eat 
and  drink,  and  laugh,  and  rejoice,  with  danger 
on  one  side  of  you  and  death  on  the  other ; 
and  a  hundred  things  beside,  that  you  know  no 
more  of  than  I  do  of  being  high-priest  of  a 
synagogue ;  so  hold  your  tongue  about  generals, 
Mr.  Mordecai,  and  go  and  mind  your  lottery- 
tickets,  and  your  cent,  per  cent,  in  Change 
Alley. 

All.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Sir  A .  Ha,  ha,  ha !  He  hath  tickled  up  the 
Eesraelite :  he  has  gi'eu  it  the  Moabite  o'  baith 
sides  o'  his  lugs. 

Char.  But,  Sir  Callaghan,  sure,  you  must 
have  been  in  imminent  danger  in  the  variety 
of  actions  you  must  have  gone  through  ? 

Sir  C.  Oh  !  to  be  sure,  madam ;  who  would 


be  a  soldier  without  danger  ?  Danger,  madam, 
is  a  soldier's  greatest  glory,  and  death  his  best 
reward. 

Mor.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  That  is  an  excellent  bull. 
Death  a  reward !  Pray,  Sir  Callaghan,  no 
offence,  I  hope ;  how  do  you  make  death  being 
a  reward  1 

Sir  C.  How  !     ^\niy,  don't  you  know  that  ? 

Mor.  Not  I,  upon  honour ! 

Sir  C.  Why,  a  soldier's  death  in  the  field  of 
battle  is  a  monument  of  fame,  that  makes  him 
as  much  alive  as  Caesar,  or  Alexander,  or  any 
dead  hero  of  them  all. 

All.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Char.  Very  well  explained.  Sir  Callaghan. 

Sir  C.  Why,  madam,  when  the  history  of 
the  English  campaigns  in  America  comes  to  be 
written,  there  is  your  own  brave  young  general, 
that  died  in  the  field  of  battle  before  Quebec, 
will  be  alive  to  the  end  of  the  world. 

Char.  You  are  right.  Sir  Callaghan ;  his  vir- 
tues, and  those  of  his  fellow-soldiers  in  that 
action,  will  be  remembered  l>y  their  country 
while  Britain  or  British  gratitude  has  a  being. 

Sir  A.  Oh !  the  Highlanders  did  good  ser- 
vice in  that  action ;  they  cut  them,  and  slashed 
them,  and  whapt  them  aboot,  and  played  the 
vary  dee'v  il  wi'  them,  sii".  There's  nae  sic  thing 
as  standing  a  Highlander's  Andrew  Ferara ; 
they  will  slaughie  aff  a  fallow's  head  at  a  dash 
slap :  it  was  that  did  the  business  at  Quebec. 

Sir  C.  I  dare  say  they  were  not  idle,  for 
they  are  tight  fellows.  Give  me  your  hand. 
Sir  Archy ;  I  assui-e  you,  your  countrymen  are 
good  soldiers ;  ay,  and  so  are  ours,  too. 

Char.  Well,  Sir  Callaghan,  I  assure  you,  I 
am  charmed  with  your  heroism,  and  greatly 
obliged  to  you  for  your  account.  Come,  Mr. 
Mordecai,  we  will  go  down  to  Sir  Theodore, 
for  I  think  I  heard  his  coach  stop. 

Mor.  Madam,  I  attend  you  with  pleasure ; 
will  you  honour  with  the  tip  of  your  ladyship's 
wedding-finger?  Sir  Callaghan,  your  servant; 
yours,  yours ;  look  here — here. 

{Exit  with  Char. 


WALTER    HUSSEY    BURGH, 


Born  1742  —  Died  1783. 


[Walter  Husaey  Burgh,  an  eminent  lawyer 
and  distingui-shed  member  of  the  Irish  parlia- 
ment miller  the  leadership  of  Grattan,  was 
born  in  the  county  of  Kildare  on  the  23d  of 


August,  1742.  Although  a  man  of  great 
eloquence,  refinement,  and  wit,  and  one  wlio 
sacrificed  preferment  in  office  to  the  love  of 
country,    yet    scarcely  anything    of    his   has 


WALTER   HUSSEY  BURGH. 


221 


come  down  to  us  except  a  few  poems  and  para- 
graphs from  his  speeches  scattered  through  the 
memoirs  of  the  leading  men  of  his  time. 

The  date  of  his  entering  Dublin  University 
is  unknown,  but  he  was  distinguished  during 
his  college  course  for  his  classical  proficiency 
as  well  as  pure  literai-y  taste  and  poetic  talent. 
On  the  death  of  a  maternal  uncle  he  in- 
herited his  estates  in  county  Limerick,  and 
added  the  name  of  Hussey  to  his  own.  In 
1768  he  was  called  to  the  l>ar,  and  shortly 
afterwards  nominated  by  the  Duke  of  Leinster 
to  a  borough  in  his  gift,  and  as  a  member  of 
the  Irish  parliament  he  took  a  leading  part 
in  the  opposition  to  the  government  of  Lord 
Townshend.  His  early  oratory  was  too  full 
of  classical  imagery  and  his  style  too  ornate ; 
but  in  a  short  time,  as  he  began  to  tlii-ow  his 
heart  more  earnestly  into  his  work,  these  de- 
fects entirely  disappeared. 

Under  the  administration  of  Lord  Bucking- 
ham he  obtained  the  rank  of  prime  sergeant 
or  first  law-officer  of  Ireland,  an  office  which 
his  popularity  at  the  bar,  in  pai'liament,  and 
among  the  peo^ile  peculiarly  fitted  him  to  fill. 
In  1779  he  was  returned  as  member  for  the 
University  of  Dublin,  shortly  before  the  dis- 
cussion on  free-trade  was  brought  before  the 
Irish  parliament.  The  Irish  were  contending 
for  thfi  right  of  trading  directly  from  their  own 
ports  to  the  British  colonies  and  to  countries 
with  which  England  was  at  peace.  The  Eng- 
lish law  at  the  time  compelled  Irish  mer- 
chants to  send  their  goods  to  England,  to  be 
there  shipped  from  her  ports  and  in  her  ships 
to  their  foreign  destinations.  "  No  human 
foresight  could  have  predicted,"  says  Sir  Jonah 
Barrington  in  his  Rise  and  Fall  of  the  Irish 
Nation,  "  the  blow  which  the  British  cabinet 
was  about  to  receive  by  one  single  sentence, 
or  have  foreseen  that  that  single  sentence 
would  be  the  composition  of  the  first  law- 
officer  of  the  Irish  government."  The  speech 
of  the  lord-lieutenant  was  of  a  temporizing 
character  and  cautiously  worded,  so  as  neither 
entirely  to  crush  the  hope  of  free-trade  nor 
compromise  the  British  govei-nment.  Grattan 
proposed  in  a  lengthy  address  that  a  rej^re- 
sentation  should  be  made  to  his  majesty  of 
the  state  of  the  country  in  consequence  of  the 
want  of  free -trade.  Some  of  the  members 
opposed  this  motion.  Then  Mr.  Hussey  Burgh 
rose  and  declared  that  "the  high  office  he 
possessed  could  hold  no  competition  with  his 
principles  and  his  conscience,  and  that  he 
should  consider  the  relinquishment  of  his  gown 
only  a  just  sacrifice  upon  the  altar   of  his 


country."  After  some  further  representations 
he  concluded  a  stirring  debate  by  the  mem- 
orable words,  "  It  is  not  by  temporary  expedi- 
ents, but  by  free-trade  alone,  that  this  nation 
is  now  to  be  saved  from  impending  ruin." 
"The  effect  of  this  speech,"  says  Sir  Jonah 
Barrington,  "was  altogether  indescribable;  .  . . 
the  character,  the  talents,  the  eloquence  of 
this  great  man  bore  down  every  symptom  of 
further  resistance ;  many  of  the  usual  .sup- 
porters of  government,  and  some  of  the 
viceroy's  immediate  connections,  instantly 
followed  his  example,  and  in  a  moment  the 
victory  was  decisive ;  not  a  single  negative 
could  the  minister  procure,  and  Mr.  Burgh's 
amendment  passed  unanimously  amidst  a 
tumult  of  joy  and  exultation." 

The  same  year  (1779),  while  the  subject  of 
free-trade  was  still  held  a  matter  of  debate, 
a  member  proposed  that  the  annual  gi-ant 
towards  the  general  expenses  of  the  empire, 
in  return  for  free-trade,  should  be  limited 
to  six  months,  and  spoke  of  Ireland  as  being 
at  peace.  Hussey  Burgh  answered,  "  Talk 
not  to  me  of  peace.  Ireland  is  not  at  peace, 
it  is  smothered  in  war.  England  has  sown 
her  laws  as  dragons'  teeth,  and  they  have 
sprung  up  as  armed  men."  "  Never  yet,"  says 
Mr.  Froude,  "had  Grattan  so  moved  the 
Irish  House  of  Commons  as  it  was  moved  at 
these  words.  From  the  floor  the  applause 
rose  to  the  gallery.  From  the  gallery  it  was 
thundered  to  the  crowd  at  the  door.  From 
the  door  it  rung  through  the  city.  As  the 
tumult  calmed  down  Hussey  Burgh  rose  again, 
and,  amidst  a  renewed  buret  of  cheers,  declared 
that  he  resigned  the  office  he  held  under  the 
crown." 

In  the  social  reunions  which  were  so  common 
during  the  last  century  in  Ireland  Hussey 
Burgh  took  a  prominent  place.  His  wit 
would  enliven  the  dullest  subject,  and  his 
eloquence  create  interest  in  the  coldest  listener. 
He  was  also  a  member  of  that  jovial  commu- 
nity "  The  Monks  of  the  Screw"  ^  at  the  time 
Curran  was  prior,  and  the  meetings  held  in 
Kevin  Street,  Dublin.  Notwithstanding  his 
opposition  to  government  his  professional 
character  stood  so  high  that  in  1782  he  was 
appointed  chief-baron  of  the  exchequer  ;  but 
he  did  not  long  enjoy  tliis  position,  for  he  died 
on  the  29th  September  in  the  following  year, 
aged  forty-one.  His  poetical  pieces  have  never 
been  collected,  and  except  a  few  stray  speci- 
mens are  now  lost. 

1  See  the  notice  of  J.  V.  Curran  on  p.  4,  vol.  ii. 


222 


WALTER  HUSSEY   BURGH. 


Burgh's  one  notable  fault  seems  to  have  been 
a  love  of  display.  He  used  to  ride  out  in  an 
equipage  drawn  by  six  horses  with  three  out- 
riders, and  in  consequence  of  this  and  other 
foi-ms  of  extravagance  his  family  were  left  in 
embarrassment.  Grattan,  however,  obtained 
a  grant  from  parliament  for  their  relief.  Of 
his  gi-eat  rectitude  in  times  of  bribery  and 
coiTuption  Lord  Temple  says :  "  No  one  had 
more  decidedly  that  inflexible  and  constitu- 
tional integrity  which  the  times  and  circum- 
stances peculiarly  called  for."  "  He  did  not 
live  to  be  ennobled  by  patent,  he  was  ennobled 
by  nature,"  said  Flood.  Mr.  Grattan  thus 
portrays  him :  "  He  was  a  man  singularly 
gifted — with  great  talent,  great  variety,  wit, 
oratory,  and  logic;  he,  too,  had  his  weakness — 
but  he  had  the  pride  of  genius  also ;  he  strove 
to  raise  his  covmtry  along  with  himself,  and 
never  sought  to  build  his  elevation  on  the 
degradation  of  Ireland.  I  moved  an  amend- 
ment for  a  free  export ;  he  moved  a  better 
amendment,  and  he  lost  his  place.  I  moved 
a  declaration  of  right.  '  With  my  last  breath 
will  I  support  the  right  of  the  Irish  parlia- 
ment,' was  his  note  to  me  when  I  applied  to 
him  for  his  support.  He  lost  the  chance  of  re- 
covering his  place,  and  his  way  to  the  seals, 
for  which  he  might  have  bartered.  The  gates 
of  promotion  were  shut  on  him  as  those  of  glory 
opened."] 


EXTRACT   FROM   SPEECH 

DELIVERED   IN  IRISH   HOCSE  OP  COMMONS,  NOV.  1779. 

You  have  but  two  nights  ago  declared 
against  new  taxes  by  a  majority  of  123,  and 
have  left  the  ministers  supported  only  by  47 
votes ;  if  you  now  go  back  and  accede  to  the 
proposed  grant  for  two  years,  your  compliance 
will  add  insult  to  the  injuries  already  done  to 
your  ill-fated  country ;  you  strike  a  dagger 
into  your  own  bosom,  and  destroy  the  fair 
prospect  of  commercial  hope,  because  if  the 
minister  can,  in  the  course  of  two  days,  render 
void  the  animated  spirit  and  patriotic  stability 
of  this  house,  and  procure  a  majority,  the 
British  minister  will  treat  our  applications  for 
free-ti-ade  with  contempt.  When  the  interests 
of  the  government  and  the  people  are  contrary 
they  seci-etly  operate  against  each  other;  such 
a  state  is  but  smothered  war.  I  shaU  be  a 
friend  alike  to  the  minister  and  the  people, 
according  as  I  find  their  desires  guided  by 
justice  ;  but  at  such  a  crisis  as  this  the  people 
must   l)e  kejjt   in  good  temper,  even  to  the 


indulgence  of  their  caprices.  Tlie  usui-ped 
authority  of  a  foreign  parliament  has  kept  up 
the  most  wicked  laws  that  a  jealous,  niono}>o- 
lizing,  ungrateful  spirit  could  devise,  to  restrain 
the  bounty  of  Providence  and  enslave  a  nation 
whose  inhabitants  are  recorded  to  be  a  brave, 
loyal,  and  generous  people ;  by  the  code  of 
English  laws,  to  answer  the  most  sordid  views, 
they  have  been  treated  with  a  savage  cruelty; 
the  words  penalty,  jjunishment,  and  Ireland 
are  synonymous,  they  are  marked  in  blood  on 
the  margin  of  their  statutes;  and  though  time 
may  have  softened  the  calamities  of  the  nation, 
the  baneful  and  destructive  influence  of  those 
laws  have  borne  her  down  to  a  state  of 
Egyptian  bondage.  Talk  not  to  me  of  peace. 
Ireland  is  not  at  peace,  it  is  smothered  in  war. 
England  has  sown  her  laws  as  dragons'  teeth, 
and  they  have  sprung  ujj  as  armed  men. 


THE   WOUNDED   BIRD. 

The  wounded  bird!  the  wounded  bird! 

With  broken  wing  and  blood-stained  feather, 

Where'er  its  plaintive  cry  is  heard, 

With  levelled  guns  the  fowlers  gather; 

Along  the  reedy  shore  it  creeps, 

With  startled  eye  and  head  low  bending, 

Or  dives  amid  the  silver  deeps, 

To  'scape  tlie  dreadful  death  impending. 

Alas!  alas!  its  wiles  are  vain, 

Its  life-stream  flows  in  ruddy  rain. 

ily  love-struck  heart!  my  love-struck  heart! 
Thou,  too,  like  the  poor  bird  art  wounded. 
Within  thee  rankles  love's  keen  dart. 
And  with  love's  snares  thou  art  surrounded. 
Bird-like  I  plunge  amid  life's  sea, 
But,  like  the  fowler,  love  pursuing 
Mocks  all  my  schemes  for  liberty. 
And  hurls  new  darts  my  soul  subduing; 
Like  thee,  poor  bird,  my  heart  is  ta'en, 
Like  thine,  its  hopes  of  flight  are  vain. 


SEE:    WICKLOWS   HILLS. 

See!  Wicklow's  hoary  hills  are  white  with  snow; 
Scarce  can  the  labouring  woods  the  weight  sus- 
tain ; 

The  rivers  cease  to  flow, 
Curbed  with  an  icy  chain. 

Revive  that  dying  blaze,  and  never  spare 

Your  choicest  flask  of  vintage  "  'fifty-seven;" 
To  drink  shall  be  our  care — 
The  rest  we  leave  to  Heaven. 


EDMUND   BURKE. 


223 


Let  not  the  morrow's  ills  thy  thoughts  employ, 
But  count  the  passing  hours  for  present  gains; 
Nor  shun  love's  gentle  joy, 
Whilst  rosy  youth  remains. 


THE   TOUPEE. 


Canst  thou,  too,  Alice,  condescend, 

That  monstrous  height  of  head  to  wear; 


And  tresses,  such  as  thine,  to  blend. 
Dear  injured  locks!  with  foreign  hair? 

The  efforts  of  the  nicest  art 

But  hide  some  native  grace  in  thee; 
Then  let  thy  charms  control  the  heart, 

In  their  own  sweet  simplicity. 

In  rocks  and  wilds  the  arbutus  grows — 
What  flowers  unsown  the  fields  display; 

The  stream,  untaught,  how  well  it  knows 
To  trace  the  windings  of  its  way. 


EDMUND     BURKE. 


Born  1730— Died  1797. 


[Edmund  Burke — one  of  Ireland's  greatest 
sons,  illustrious  as  a  statesman,  orator,  and 
writer — was  born  in  AiTan  Quay,  Dublin, 
on  the  1st  of  January,  1730.  His  father  was 
an  attorney  in  large  practice  and  good 
reputation.  His  mother  was  a  Nagle  of 
Castletown  Roche  in  the  county  of  Cork,  and 
held  firmly  to  the  Roman  Catholic  religion  of 
her  family,  while  his  father  was  a  Protestant, 
in  which  religion  Edmund  was  brought  up. 
There  can  be  no  doubt,  however,  that  the  dif- 
ference in  religion  between  the  parents,  which 
has  so  often  been  the  cause  of  unmitigated 
evil,  had  in  his  case  a  beneficial  effect,  allay- 
ing bigotry  and  opening  his  mind  to  broader 
views  on  the  question  of  opposing  religious 
opinions. 

In  his  early  youth  Burke  was  of  a  sickly 
constitution,  and  being  unable  to  take  exercise 
like  other  children,  he  read  a  great  deal,  and 
so  got  far  in  advance  of  those  of  his  own  age. 
He  first  attended  a  village  school  at  Castletown 
Roche,  kept  by  one  O'Halloran,  who  brought 
him  on  so  far  as  to  read  the  Latin  grammar. 
At  twelve  he  was  sent  to  the  school  of  a 
Quaker  named  Shackleton,  at  Ballytore,  in 
county  Kildare.  Her-e  he  distinguished  him- 
self by  a  close  study  of  the  classical  writers 
ancient  and  modern,  and  at  fourteen,  when  he 
entered  Trinity  College,  he  was  unusually  well 
read  for  a  boy  of  that  age.  In  his  college 
career  Burke  did  not  distinguish  himself 
beyond  ordinary  students,  though  in  1746,  or 
two  years  after  entry,  he  obtained  a  scholar- 
ship. He  was  discursive  in  his  reading,  and 
given  to  sudden  and  impulsive  changes  in  his 
studies,  being  at  one  time  devoted  to  history, 
at  another  to  mathematics,  now  to  metaphysics, 


and  again  to  poetry.  This  fitfulness,  though 
it  may  have  interfered  with  the  success  of  his 
academic  career,  doubtless  made  him  all  the 
better  suited  for  the  wide  stage  on  which  he 
was  to  play  so  great  a  part  in  after  life. 

On  the  21st  of  April,  1747,  a  club  was  formed 
of  four  members,  Burke  being  one  of  them. 
This  was  the  germ  of  the  celebrated  Historical 
Society,  and  here  he  put  forth  his  opinions  on 
historic  characters,  paintings,  and  the  wide 
range  of  subjects  of  which  he  was  master, 
without  fear  of  the  judgment  or  criticism  of 
his  audience,  and  thus  gained  that  very  bold- 
ness which  afterwards  rendered  him  so  un- 
manageable in  debate.  In  1748  he  took  his 
degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts,  and  soon  after 
left  the  university.  In  1750  he  proceeded  to 
London,  his  name  having  already  been  entered 
as  a  student  at  the  Middle  Temple.  But, 
instead  of  studying  for  the  law,  he  paid  visits 
to  the  House  of  Commons  as  if  drawn  there 
by  some  powerful  instinct,  made  speeches  at 
the  Robin  Hood  Society,  and  contributed  to 
the  peiiodicals  so  as  to  eke  out  the  small 
allowance  granted  him  by  his  father.  At  this 
last  occupation  he  worked  so  hard  that  his 
health,  never  very  good,  began  to  suffer.  His 
physician  Dr.  Nugent  advised  rest  and  quiet, 
and  invited  him  to  his  own  house.  There  he 
received  the  kindest  treatment ;  and,  more 
important  still,  an  attachment  sprang  up  be- 
tween him  and  the  physician's  daughter,  re- 
sulting in  a  marriage  which  proved  excep- 
tionally happy.  This  resulted  no  doubt  from 
Mrs.  Burke's  character,  which,  we  are  told,  was 
"  soft,  gentle,  reasonable,  and  obliging."  She 
was  also  noted  for  managing  her  husband's 
affairs  with  prudence   and   discretion.      No 


224 


EDMUND   BURKE. 


wonder  Burke  declared  that,  in  all  the  most 
anxious  moments  of  his  public  life,  every  care 
vanished  the  moment  he  entered  his  own 
house. 

Though  contributing  largely  to  the  period- 
icals of  the  day  the  first  of  his  essays,  so  far 
as  is  known,  that  attained  to  any  great  dis- 
tinction was  his  Vindication  of  Natural 
Society,  which  appeared  anonymously  in  the 
spring  of  1756.  This  work  exhibited  so  com- 
plete though  ironical  an  imitation  of  Lord 
Bolingbroke's  style  that  many  persons  were 
deceived  by  it,  not  perceiving  Bm-ke's  inten- 
tion, which  was  to  ])rove  that  the  same  argu- 
ments which  were  employed  by  his  lordship 
for  the  destruction  of  religion  might  be  em- 
ployed with  equal  success  for  the  subver- 
sion of  government.  Before  the  end  of  the 
same  year  Burke  published  his  celebrated 
work,  A  Philosophical  Inquiry  into  the  Origin 
of  our  Ideas  of  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful, 
which,  by  the  elegance  of  its  language  and  the 
spii'it  of  philosophical  investigation  displayed 
in  it,  advanced  him  to  a  first  place  among 
writers  on  taste  and  criticism.  Johnson 
praised  it  highly,  and  Blair,  Hume,  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds,  and  other  eminent  men  sought  the 
friendship  of  the  gifted  author.  His  father, 
who  had  been  indignant  at  his  son's  desertion 
of  the  law,  was  so  pleased  with  the  work  that 
he  sent  him  a  present  of  £100  as  a  proof 
of  his  admiration  and  approval.  In  1758, 
still  devotedly  attached  to  the  study  of  his- 
tory, he  proposed  to  Dodsley  the  publica- 
tion of  the  Annual  Register,  and  the  proposal 
being  entertained,  an  arrangement  was  made 
under  which  Burke  wrote  the  historical  part 
of  the  work  for  many  years. 

In  1761  his  political  career  properly  com- 
menced. In  that  year  he  went  to  Ireland  as 
private  secretary  to  William  Gerard  Hamilton 
(of  single-speech  memory),  who  was  at  the 
time  chief  secretary  to  the  lord-lieutenant. 
For  his  services  he  was  rewarded  with  a  pen- 
sion of  £300,  but  after  a  time  he  threw  it  up 
a.s  inconsistent  with  his  personal  indepen- 
dence. In  1765  he  returned  to  London,  and 
in  the  same  year  was  introduced  to  the  Mar- 
quis of  Rockingham,  who,  on  becoming  prime 
minister,  appointed  him  private  secretary. 
In  1766,  through  the  influence  of  Lord  Verney, 
he  became  member  for  the  borough  of  Wend- 
over,  and  took  his  seat  in  that  house  which  he 
was  afterwards  so  greatly  to  influence  and 
adorn.  His  first  speech  was  on  American 
alFairs,  and  was  praised  by  Pitt.  In  it  he 
advised   the   Rockingham  administration  to 


repeal  the  stamp  act  which  so  irritated  the 
Americans,  but  at  the  same  time  to  pass  an 
act  declaratory  of  the  right  of  Great  Britain 
to  tax  her  colonies.  The  compromise  which 
he  advised  was  cai-ried  out ;  but  the  ministry 
soon  after  resigned  to  give  place  to  Mr.  Pitt. 
Upon  this  Burke  wrote  his  Short  Account  of 
a  Late  Short  Administratio7i.  In  this  year 
(1768)  Mr.  Burke  thus  writes  to  a  friend:  "I 
have  purchased  a  house  (Beaconsfield)  with  an 
estate  of  about  600  acres  of  land  in  Bucking- 
hamshire, twenty-four  miles  from  London, 
where  I  now  am.  It  is  a  place  exceedingly 
pleasant,  and  I  propose  (God  willing)  to  be- 
come a  farmer  in  good  earnest.  You  who  are 
classical  will  not  be  displeased  to  hear  that  it 
was  formerly  the  seat  of  Waller  the  poet, 
whose  house,  or  part  of  it,  makes  at  present 
the  farmhouse  within  a  hundred  yards  of  me." 
During  the  Wilkes  excitement  he  opposed  the 
violent  measures  adopted  against  the  fire- 
brand, and  in  1770  he  published  his  Thoughts 
on  the  Causes  of  the  Present  Discontents,  which 
contains  a  copious  statement  of  his  ideas  on 
the  English  constitution.  He  also  took  a  pro- 
minent part  in  the  debates  on  the  Uberty  of 
the  press,  strongly  supporting  those  who 
wished  to  curtail  the  power  of  the  crown.  In 
1774  he  was  chosen  member  for  Bristol,  and 
it  is  to  his  credit  that  he  subsequently  ven- 
tured to  give  off'ence  to  his  Bristol  friends  by 
his  support  of  the  Irish  petition  for  free- 
trade  and  for  moderating  the  penal  statute, 
which  was  felt  so  intolerable  by  his  country- 
men. On  the  19th  of  April  in  this  year  he 
made  a  powerful  speech  on  the  repeal  of  the 
tea  duty  in  America.  This  speech  was  "  one 
of  the  greatest  to  which  any  assembly  had 
ever  listened,  replete  with  philosophy,  and 
adorned  with  the  most  gorgeous  diction,"  and 
it  raised  Burke  at  once  into  the  position  of 
first  orator  in  the  house. 

In  March,  1775,  he  introduced  his  famous 
"  Thirteen  Propositions  for  Quieting  the  Trou- 
bles in  America,"  and  delivered  another 
great  speech,  in  which  he  pointed  out  how, 
on  the  grounds  of  expediency  alone,  conces- 
sion to  the  colonists'  demands  was  the  wiser 
course.  In  1777  he  again  appeared  in  advo- 
cacy of  the  cause  of  the  colonies;  but  the  hour 
for  conciliation  was  past,  and  his  speeches  on 
the  subject  were  only  able  reasoning  and  elo- 
quence wasted.  In  1783  Lord  Rockingham 
again  came  into  power,  and  Burke  was  ap- 
pointed to  the  well-paid  post  of  paymaster- 
general,  together  with  a  seat  at  the  council 
board.      On   the   death   of    Rockingham   lie 


EDMUND    BURKE 


After  the  Painting  by  G.   JiO-UNEY 


EDMUND   BURKE. 


225 


resigned  his  post  and  joined  the  coalition 
with  Fox  and  North.  This  coalition  ilefeated 
Shelburne,  who  had  taken  Rockingham's  place, 
and  on  the  2d  of  April  entered  office,  Burke 
becoming  once  more  payniiister-general.  But 
the  ministry  was  short-lived,  being  defeated 
on  the  India  bill  in  December  of  the  same 
year,  and  Mr.  Pitt  succeeded  to  the  helm  of 
state. 

In  1784  Burke,  who  had  for  a  long  time 
viewed  the  career  of  Warren  Hastings  in 
India  with  indignation,  commenced  his  famous 
attack  upon  that  individual.  No  sooner  had 
Hastings  returned  to  England  than  Burke  took 
steps  towards  his  impeachment.  He  had 
studied  Indian  affaii-s  with  assiduous  care,  and 
was  thus  enabled  to  make  the  great  speeches 
with  which  he  began  his  attack  not  only  elo- 
quent, but  full  of  information  such  as  no  other 
member  of  the  house  could  impart.  How- 
ever, for  a  time  he  made  little  way  against  the 
large  majority  opposed  to  him,  and  it  was  the 
13th  February,  1788,  before  the  great  trial 
commenced.  As  every  one  knows  it  lasted 
for  six  yeai's,  and  was  the  cause  of  some  of  the 
most  eloquent  speeches  by  Burke  and  othera 
ever  uttered  in  "Westminster  Hall.  The 
trial  brought  Burke  increase  of  fame  as  an 
orator,  but  rather  lessened  him  in  the  popular 
opinion,  and  the  final  result  was  the  acquittal 
of  the  "haughty  criminal." 

In  1789  and  1790  Burke  vigorously  opposed 
the  extreme  views  of  the  men  who  in  France 
were  apparently  dragging  the  whole  fabric  of 
society  to  ruin.  In  November  of  the  latter 
year  he  published  his  famous  pamphlet  Reflec- 
tions on  the  French  Revohition.  It  exhibits 
both  the  merits  and  defects  of  the  writer,  and 
contains  much  justness  of  argi;ment,  profun- 
dity of  observation,  and  beauty  of  style,  but  it 
is  equally  obvious  that  he  commits  the  very 
fault  which  he  intended  to  reprobate  in  his 
Vindication  of  j}v^atural  Society,  by  making 
his  arguments  applicable  to  the  defence  of  all 
establishments,  however  tyrannical,  and  the 
censure  of  every  popular  struggle  for  liberty, 
whatever  the  oppression.  The  pamphlet  had 
an  unprecedented  sale.  Within  one  year 
19,000  copies  were  sold  in  England,  and  about 
as  many  more,  translated  into  French,  on  the 
Continent.  Ita  richness  of  diction  and  felicity 
of  illustration  caused  it  to  be  read  by  thou- 
sands who  would  have  cared  nothing  for  a 
dry  philosophical  treatise.  But  while  it  had 
multitudes  of  enthusiastic  admirers,  it  met  also 
with  several  formidable  critics,  and  brought 
forth  in  reply  Sir  James  Mackintosh's  Vin- 

VOL.  I. 


diciae  Gallicae  and  Thomas  Paine's  famous 
Rights  of  Man.  Burke  followed  it  up  by  a 
Letter  to  a  Member  of  the  National  Assembly, 
in  1791,  An  Appeal  from  the  New  Whigs  to 
the  Old,  and  Thoughts  on  a  Regicide  Peace.  The 
publication  of  his  views  on  the  proceedings  of 
the  French  revolutionists  was  of  course  highly 
distastefid  to  their  English  sympathizers,  and 
soon  brought  about  a  complete  estrangement 
between  Burke  and  his  former  political  friends 
Fox  and  Sheridan.  In  May,  1791,  the  cele- 
brated scene  between  him  and  Fox  in  the 
House  of  Commons  took  place,  which  resulted 
in  a  breach  never  again  repaired.  In  1792  he 
published  a  Letter  to  Sir  Hercules  Langrishe 
on  the  Propriety  of  Admitting  Roman  Catholics 
to  the  Elective  Franchise,  and  in  1794  withdrew 
from  parliament,  being  succeeded  in  the  repre- 
sentation of  Malton  by  his  only  son,  a  youth 
of  great  promise.  This  son  died  soon  after, 
and  the  shock  was  so  great  that  Burke  never 
fully  recovered  from  it.  At  the  express  wish 
of  the  king,  who  with  his  court  had  assumed 
a  very  friendly  attitude  towards  Burke,  be- 
cause of  his  views  on  the  French  revolution, 
a  pension  of  £3700  per  annum  was  settled 
upon  him  in  1795.  For  the  acceptance  of 
this  he  was  fiercely  attacked  in  the  House  of 
Lords.  His  Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord,  fidl  of 
biting  sarcasm,  and  at  the  same  time  lofty 
resentment,  was  in  answer  to  this  attack. 

The  remaining  two  yeai-s  of  his  Life  were 
spent  in  retirement,  but  his  pen  was  not  idle. 
Educational  and  philanthropic  measures  were 
noted  and  commented  on,  and  his  latest  pub- 
lication was  on  the  affairs  of  his  native  land, 
at  that  time  fast  approaching  a  crisis.  In  the 
February  of  1797  his  health  began  to  decline, 
and  a  visit  to  Bath  was  ordered.  After  a 
sojourn  of  about  four  months,  no  visible 
change  for  the  better  was  effected,  and  in 
May  he  returned  to  his  family  seat  at  Bea- 
consfield,  where  he  died  on  July  8th  of  the 
same  year.  His  remains  were  buiied  at 
Beaconsfield  by  his  own  desire,  as  he  said, 
"near  to  the  bodies  of  my  dearest  brother 
and  my  dearest  son,  in  all  humility  praying 
that  as  we  have  lived  in  perfect  unity  together, 
we  may  together  have  a  part  in  the  resurrec- 
tion of  the  just." 

Macaulay  distinctly  pronounces  Burke,  "in 
aptitude  of  comprehension,  and  richness  of 
imagination,  superior  to  every  orator,  ancient 
or  modern."  "  With  the  exception  of  his  writ- 
ings upon  the  French  revolution,"  says  Lord 
Brougham,  "  an  exception  itself  to  be  qualified 
and  restricted,  it  woidd  be  difficult  to  find  any 

15 


226 


EDMUND  BURKE. 


statesman  of  any  age  whose  opinions  were 
more  habitually  marked  by  moderation ;  by 
a  constant  legard  to  the  result  of  actual  ex- 
perience, as  well  as  the  dictates  of  an  enlarged 
reason ;  by  a  fixed  determination  always 
to  be  practical,  at  the  time  he  was  giving 
scope  to  the  most  extensive  general  views ; 
by  a  cautious  and  prudent  abstinence  from  all 
extremes,  and  especially  from  those  towards 
which  the  general  complexion  of  his  political 
principles  tended,  he  felt  the  more  necessity 
for  being  on  his  guard  against  the  seduction." 
"  As  a  writer  he  was  of  the  first  class,  and  ex- 
celled in  every  kind  of  prose  composition,  the 
extraordinary  depth  of  his  detached  views, 
the  penetrating  sagacity  which  he  occasionally 
applies  to  the  affairs  of  men  and  their  motives, 
and  the  curious  felicity  of  expression  with 
which  he  unfolds  principles,  and  traces  re- 
semblances and  relations,  are  separately  the 
gift  of  few,  and  in  their  union  probably  with- 
out an  example.  When  he  is  handling  any 
one  matter  we  perceive  that  we  are  conversing 
with  a  reasoner  and  a  teacher  to  whom  almost 
every  other  branch  of  knowledge  is  familiar. 
His  views  range  over  all  the  cognate  subjects ; 
his  reasonings  are  derived  from  principles  ap- 
plicable to  other  matters  as  well  as  the  one  in 
hand;  arguments  pom-  in  from  all  sides  as 
well  as  those  which  start  up  under  our  feet, 
the  natural  growth  of  the  path  he  is  leading 
us  over;  while  to  throw  light  around  our 
steps,  and  either  explore  its  darker  places, 
or  serve  for  our  recreation,  illustrations  are 
fetched  from  a  thousand  quarters ;  and  an 
imagination  marvellously  quick  to  descry  un- 
thought  of  resemblances  pours  forth  the  stores 
which  a  lore  yet  more  marvellous  has  gathered 
from  all  ages  and  nations,  and  arts  and 
tongues.  We  are,  in  respect  of  the  argument, 
reminded  of  Bacon's  multifarious  knowledge, 
and  the  exuberance  of  his  learned  fancy ;  while 
the  many-lettered  diction  recalls  to  mind  the 
first  of  English  poets  and  his  immortal  verse, 
rich  with  the  spoils  of  all  sciences  and  all  times. 
.  .  .  He  now  moves  on  with  the  composed  air, 
the  even  dignified  pace  of  the  historian ;  and 
unfolds  his  facts  in  a  narrative  so  easy,  and 
yet  so  correct,  that  you  ])lainly  perceive  he 
wanted  only  the  dismissal  of  other  pursuits  to 
have  rivalled  Livy  or  Hume.  But  soon  this 
advance  is  interrupted,  and  he  stops  to  display 
his  powers  of  description,  when  the  boldness 
of  his  design  is  only  matched  by  the  beauty 
of  his  colouring.  He  then  skirmishes  for  a 
space,  and  puts  in  motion  all  tlie  lighter  arms 
of  wit;  sometimes  not  unmingled  with  drol- 


lery, sometimes  bordering  upon  farce.  His 
main  battery  is  now  opened,  and  a  tempest 
bursts  forth  of  every  weapon  of  attack,  in- 
vective, abuse,  irony,  sarcasm,  simile  drawn 
out  to  allegory,  allusion,  quotation,  fable,  par- 
able, anathema."  The  great  statesman  Fox 
says :  "  If  I  were  to  jDut  all  the  political  infor- 
mation that  I  have  ever  gained  from  books, 
and  all  that  I  have  learned  from  science,  or 
that  the  knowledge  of  the  world  and  its 
affairs  have  taught  me,  into  one  scale,  and  the 
improvement  I  have  derived  from  the  con- 
versation and  teachings  of  Edmund  Burke  into 
the  other,  the  latter  would  preponderate." 

Within  the  massive  railings  in  front  of 
Trinity  College,  Dublin,  stand  on  either  side 
the  magnificent  statues  of  Edmund  Burke 
and  Oliver  Goldsmith,  both  executed  by  the 
eminent  sculptor  J.  H.  Foley,  R.A.  An  edi- 
tion of  Burke's  works  and  correspondence,  we 
believe  the  most  complete  published,  appeared 
in  1852  in  eight  volumes.] 


GRADUAL   VARIATION.! 

But  as  perfectly  beautiful  bodies  are  not 
composed  of  angular  parts,  so  their  parts  never 
continue  long  in  the  same  right  line.  They 
vary  their  du-ection  eveiy  moment,  and  they 
change  under  the  eye  by  a  deviation  con- 
tinually carrying  on,  but  for  whose  beginning 
or  end  you  will  find  it  difhcult  to  ascertain 
a  point.  The  view  of  a  beautiful  bird  will 
illustrate  this  observation.  Here  we  see  the 
head  increasing  insensibly  to  the  middle,  from 
whence  it  lessens  gradually  until  it  mixes 
with  the  neck ;  the  neck  loses  itself  in  a  larger 
swell,  which  continues  to  the  middle  of  the 
body,  when  the  whole  decreases  again  to  the 
tail ;  the  tail  takes  a  new  direction ;  but  it 
soon  varies  its  new  course ;  it  blends  again 
with  the  other  parts;  and  the  line  is  per- 
petually changing,  above,  below,  upon  every 
side.  In  this  description  I  have  before  me 
the  idea  of  a  dove ;  it  agrees  very  well  with 
most  of  the  conditions  of  beauty.  It  is  smooth 
and  downy;  its  parts  are  (to  use  that  expres- 
sion) melted  into  one  another;  you  are  pre- 
sented with  no  sudden  protuberance  through 
the  whole,  and  yet  the  whole  is  continuiUly 
changing.  Observe  that  part  of  a  beautiful 
wom;ui  where  she  is  perhaps  the  most  beautiful, 

I  I'liia  extract  is  fi-oiu  Easay  on  the  Subliuie  and  Beau- 
tiful. 


EDMUND   BURKE. 


227 


about  the  neck  and  breasts ;  the  smoothness ; 
the  softness ;  the  easy  and  insensible  swell ;  the 
variety  of  the  surface,  which  is  never  for  the 
smallest  space  tlie  same :  the  deceitful  maze, 
through  which  the  unsteady  eye  slides  giddily, 
without  knowing  where  to  fix  or  whitlier  it  is 
carried.  Is  not  this  a  demonstration  of  that 
change  of  surface,  continual,  and  yet  hardly 
pei'ceptible  at  any  point,  which  forms  one  of 
the  great  constituents  of  beauty  ]  It  gives  me 
no  small  pleasure  to  find  that  1  can  strengthen 
my  theory  in  this  j)oint  by  the  opinion  of  the 
very  ingenious  Mr.  Hogarth,  whose  idea  of 
the  line  of  beauty  I  take  in  general  to  be  ex- 
tremely just.  But  the  idea  of  variation, 
without  attending  so  accurately  to  the  manner 
of  the  variation,  has  led  him  to  consider  an- 
gular figures  as  beautiful :  these  figures,  it  is 
true,  vary  greatly ;  yet  they  vary  in  a  sudden 
and  broken  manner;  and  I  do  not  find  any 
natural  object  which  is  angular  and  at  the 
same  time  beautiful.  Indeed  few  natural 
objects  are  entirely  angular.  But  I  think 
those  which  approach  the  most  nearly  to  it  are 
the  ugliest.  I  must  add  too,  that,  so  far  as  I 
could  observe  of  nature,  though  the  varied 
line  is  that  alone  in  which  complete  beauty  is 
found,  yet  there  is  no  particular  line  which  is 
always  found  in  the  most  completely  beautiful, 
and  which  is  therefore  beautiful  in  preference 
to  all  other  lines.  At  least  I  never  could 
observe  it. 


QUEEN   MARIE   ANTOINETTE. 

It  is  now  sixteen  or  seventeen  years  since  I 
saw  the  Queen  of  France,  then  the  dauphiness, 
at  Versailles;  and  surely  never  lighted  on 
this  orb,  which  she  hardly  seemed  to  touch,  a 
more  delightful  vision.  I  saw  her  just  above 
the  horizon,  decorating  and  cheering  the  ele- 
vated sphere  she  just  began  to  move  in, — 
glittering  like  the  morning-star,  full  of  life, 
and  splendour,  and  joy.  Oh  !  wliat  a  revolu- 
tion !  and  what  an  heart  must  I  have,  to  con- 
template without  emotion  that  elevation  and 
that  fall !  Little  did  I  dream  when  she  added 
titles  of  veneration  to  those  of  enthusiastic, 
distant,  respectful  love,  that  she  should  ever 
be  obliged  to  carry  the  sharp  antidote  against 
disgrace  concealed  in  that  bosom  ;  little  did  I 
dream  that  I  should  have  lived  to  see  such 
disasters  fallen  upon  her  in  a  nation  of  gallant 
men,  in  a  nation  of  men  of  honour  and  of 
cavaliers,     I   thought  ten  thousand  swords 


must  have  leaped  from  their  scabbards  to 
avenge  even  a  look  that  threatened  her  with 
insult.  But  the  age  of  chivalry  is  gone.  That 
of  sophisters,  economists,  and  calculators  has 
succeeded  ;  and  the  glory  of  Europe  is  extin- 
guished for  ever.  Never,  never  more,  shall 
we  behold  that  generous  loyalty  to  rank  and 
sex,  that  proud  submission,  that  dignifietl 
obedience,  that  subordination  of  the  heart, 
which  kept  alive,  even  in  servitude  itself, 
the  spirit  of  an  exalted  freedom.  The  un- 
bought  grace  of  life,  the  cheap  defence  of  na- 
tions, the  nurse  of  manly  sentiment  and  heroic 
enterprise  is  gone !  It  is  gone,  that  sensi- 
bility of  principle,  that  chastity  of  hduour, 
which  felt  a  .stain  like  a  wound,  which  in- 
spired courage  whilst  it  mitigated  ferocity, 
which  ennobled  whatever  it  touched,  and 
under  which  vice  itself  lost  half  its  evil  by 
losing  all  its  grossness. 

This  mixed  system  of  oiiinion  and  sentiment 
had  its  origin  in  the  ancient  chivalry ;  and  the 
principle,  though  varied  in  its  apjiearance  by 
the  varying  state  of  human  affairs,  subsisted 
and  influenced  through  a  long  succession  (»f 
generations,  even  to  the  time  we  live  in.  If 
it  should  ever  be  totally  extinguished,  the  loss 
I  fear  will  be  great.  It  is  this  which  has 
given  its  character  to  modern  Europe.  It  is 
this  which  has  distinguished  it  under  all  its 
forms  of  government,  and  distinguished  it  to 
its  advantage,  from  the  states  of  Asia,  and 
possibly  from  those  states  which  flourished  in 
the  most  brilliant  periods  of  the  antique  world. 
It  was  this  which,  without  confounding  ranks, 
had  produced  a  noble  equality,  and  haude<l  it 
down  through  all  the  gradations  of  social  life. 
It  was  this  opinion  which  mitigated  kings 
into  companions,  and  raised  private  men  to  be 
fellows  with  kings.  Without  force  or  opposi- 
tion it  subdued  the  fierceness  of  pride  and 
power ;  it  obliged  sovereigns  to  submit  to  the 
soft  collar  of  social  esteem,  compelled  stein 
authority  to  submit  to  elegance,  and  gave  a 
dominating  vanquisher  of  laws  to  be  subdued 
by  mannei-s. 

But  now  all  is  to  be  changed.  AU  the 
jileasing  illusions,  which  made  power  gentle 
and  obedience  liberal,  which  harmonized  the 
different  shades  of  life,  and  which,  by  a  bland 
assimilation,  incorporated  into  polities  the 
sentiments  which  beautify  and  soften  private 
society,  are  to  be  dissolved  by  this  new  con- 
quering emjiire  of  light  and  reason.  All  the 
decent  drapery  of  life  is  to  be  rudely  torn  off. 
All  the  superadded  ideas,  furnished  from  the 
wardrobe  of  a  moral  imagination,  which  the 


228 


EDMUND   BURKE. 


heart  owns  and  the  understanding  ratifies  as 
necessary  to  cover  the  defects  of  our  naked 
shivering  nature,  and  to  raise  it  to  dignity  in 
our  own  estimation,  are  to  be  exploded  as  a 
ridiculous,  absurd,  and  antiquated  fashion. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  IMPEACHMENT 
OF   WARREN   HASTINGS. 

Hastings,  the  lieutenant  of  a  British  mon- 
arch, claiming  absolute  dominion !  From 
whom,  in  the  name  of  all  that  was  strange, 
could  he  derive,  or  how  had  he  the  audacity 
to  claim,  such  authority?  He  could  not  have 
derived  it  from  the  East  India  Company,  for 
they  had  it  not  to  confer.  He  could  not  have 
received  it  from  his  sovereign,  for  the  sove- 
reign had  it  not  to  bestow.  It  could  not  have 
been  given  by  either  house  of  parliament — for 
it  was  unknown  to  the  British  constitution ! 
Yet  Mr.  Hastings,  acting  under  the  assump- 
tion of  this  power,  had  avowed  his  rejection  of 
British  acts  of  parliament,  had  gloried  in  the 
success  which  he  pretended  to  derive  from 
their  violation,  and  had  on  every  occasion  at- 
tempted to  justify  the  exercise  of  arbitrary 
power  in  its  greatest  extent.  Having  thus 
avowedly  acted  in  opposition  to  the  laws  of 
Great  Britain,  he  sought  a  shield  in  vain  in 
other  laws  and  other  usages.  Would  he  appeal 
to  the  Maliomedan  law  for  his  justification? 
In  the  whole  Koran  there  was  not  a  single 
text  which  could  justify  the  power  he  had 
assumed.  Would  he  appeal  to  the  Gentoo 
code?  Vain  there  the  effort  also;  a  system  of 
stricter  justice,  or  more  pure  morality,  did  not 
exist.  It  was,  therefore,  equal  whether  he 
fled  for  shelter  to  a  British  court  of  justice  or 
a  Gentoo  pagoda ;  he  in  either  instance  stood 
convicted  as  a  daring  violator  of  the  laws. 
And  what,  my  lords,  is  opposed  to  all  this 
practice  of  tyrants  and  usurpers,  which  Mr. 
Hastings  takes  for  his  rule  and  guidance? 
He  endeavours  to  find  deviations  from  legal 
government,  and  then  instructs  his  counsel  to 
say  that  I  have  asserted  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  arbitrary  power  in  the  East.  But,  my 
lords,  we  all  know  that  there  has  been  arbi- 
trary power  in  India ;  that  tyrants  have 
usurped  it ;  and  that  in  some  instances  princes, 
otherwise  meritorious,  have  violated  the  liber- 
ties of  the  people,  and  have  been  lawfully 
dejjosed  for  such  violation.  I  do  not  deny 
that  there  are  robberies  on  Hounslow  Heath; 
that  there  are  such  things  as  forgeries,  bur- 


glaries, and  murders ;  but  I  say  that  these 
acts  are  against  law,  and  whoever  commits 
them  commits  illegal  acts.  When  a  man  is  to 
defend  himself  against  a  charge  of  crime,  it  is 
not  instances  of  similar  violation  of  law  that 
are  to  be  the  standard  of  his  defence.  A  man 
may  as  well  say,  "  I  robbed  upon  Hounslow 
Heath,  but  hundreds  robbed  there  before  me:" 
to  which  I  answer,  "  The  law  has  forbidden 
you  to  rob  there,  and  I  will  hang  you  for  hav- 
ing violated  the  law,  notwithstanding  the 
long  list  of  similar  violations  which  you  have 
produced  as  precedents."  No  doubt  princes 
have  violated  the  laws  of  this  country;  they 
have  suffered  for  it.  Nobles  have  violated 
the  law :  their  pi-ivileges  have  not  protected 
them  from  jjunishment.  Common  j^eople 
have  violated  the  law ;  they  have  hanged  for 
it.  I  know  no  human  being  exempt  from  the 
law.  The  law  is  a  security  of  the  people  of 
England ;  it  is  the  security  of  the  people  of 
India ;  it  is  the  security  of  every  person  that 
is  governed,  and  of  every  person  that  governs. 
There  is  but  one  law  for  all,  namely,  that  law 
which  governs  all  law,  the  law  of  our  Creator, 
the  law  of  humanity,  justice,  equity — the  law 
of  nature  and  of  nations.  So  far  as  any  laws 
fortify  this  primeval  law,  and  give  it  more 
precision,  more  energy,  more  effect  by  their 
declarations,  such  laws  entei'  into  the  sanctu- 
ary, and  participate  in  the  sacredness  of  its 
character.  But  the  man  who  quotes  as  pre- 
cedents the  abuses  of  tyrants  and  robbers, 
pollutes  the  very  fountain  of  justice,  destroys 
the  foundation  of  all  law,  and  thereby  removes 
the  only  safeguard  against  evil  men,  whether 
governing  or  governed — the  guard  which  pre- 
vents governors  from  becoming  tyrants,  and 
the  governed  from  becoming  rebels. 

Debi  Sing  and  his  instruments  suspected, 
and  in  a  few  cases  they  suspected  justly,  that 
the  country  people  had  purloined  from  their 
own  estates,  and  had  hidden  in  secret  places 
in  the  circumjacent  deserts,  some  small  reserve 
of  their  own  grain  to  maintain  themselves 
during  the  unproductive  months  of  the  year, 
and  to  leave  some  hope  for  a  future  season. 
But  the  under  tyrants  knew  that  the  demands 
of  Mr.  Hastings  would  admit  no  plea  for  delay, 
much  less  for  subtraction  of  his  bribe,  and 
that  he  would  not  abate  a  shilling  of  it  to 
the  wants  of  the  whole  human  race.  These 
hoaixls,  real  or  supposed,  not  being  discovered 
by  menaces  and  imprisonment,  they  fell  upon 
the  last  resource,  the  naked  bodies  of  the 
people.     And  here,  my  lords,  began  such  a 


EDMUND   BURKE. 


229 


scene  of  cruelties  and  tortures,  as  I  believe  no 
history  haa  ever  presented  to  the  indignation 
of  the  world ;  such  as  I  am  sure,  in  the  most 
barbarous  ages,  no  politic  tyranny,  no  fanatic 
persecution  has  ever  yet  exceeded.  Mr.  Pat- 
terson, the  commissioner  appointed  to  inquire 
into  the  state  of  the  country,  makes  his  own 
apology  and  mine  for  opening  this  scene  of 
horrors  to  you  in  the  following  words  :  "That 
the  punishments  inflicted  upon  the  ryots  both 
of  Rungpore  and  Dinagepore  for  non-payment 
were  in  many  instances  of  such  a  nature  that 
I  would  rather  wish  to  draw  a  veil  over  them 
than  shock  your  feelings  by  the  detail.  But 
that,  however  disagreeable  the  task  maybe  to 
myself,  it  is  absolutely  necessary  for  the  sake 
of  justice,  humanity,  and  the  honour  of  govern- 
ment that  they  should  be  exposed,  to  be  pre- 
vented in  future." 

My  lords,  they  began  by  winding  cords 
round  the  fingei^s  of  the  unhappy  freeholdei-s 
of  those  provinces,  until  they  clung  to  and 
were  almost  incorporated  with  one  another; 
and  then  they  hammered  wedges  of  iron  be- 
tween them,  until,  regardless  of  the  cries  of 
the  sutferers,  they  had  bruised  to  pieces,  and 
for  ever  crippled  those  poor,  honest,  innocent, 
laborious  hands,  which  had  never  been  raised 
to  their  mouths  but  with  a  jienurious  and 
scanty  propoi-tion  of  the  fruits  of  their  own 
soil ;  but  those  fruits  (denied  to  the  wants  of 
their  own  children)  have  for  more  than  fifteen 
years  past  furnished  the  investment  for  our 
trade  with  China,  and  been  sent  annually  out, 
and  without  recompense,  to  purchase  for  us 
that  delicate  meal,  with  which  your  lordships, 
and  all  this  auditory,  and  all  this  country  have 
begun  every  day  for  these  fifteen  years  at  their 
expense.  To  those  beneficent  hands  that 
labour  for  our  benefit  the  return  of  the  Bri- 
tish government  has  been  cords  and  wedges. 
But  there  is  a  place  where  these  crippled  and 
disabled  hands  will  act  with  resistless  power. 
What  is  it  that  they  will  not  j^ull  down,  when 
they  ar-e  lifted  to  heaven  against  their  op- 
pressoi's  ?  Then  what  can  withstand  such 
hands  ?  Can  the  power  that  crushed  and  de- 
stroyed them  ?  Powerful  in  prayer,  let  us  at 
least  deprecate,  and  thus  endeavour  to  secure 
ourselves  from  the  vengeance  which  these 
mashed  and  disabled  hands  may  pull  down 
upon  us.  My  lords,  it  is  an  awful  considera- 
tion.    Let  us  think  of  it. 

But  to  pursue  this  melancholy  but  neces- 
sary detail.  I  am  next  to  open  to  your  lord- 
shijis  what  I  am  hereafter  to  prove,  that  the 
most  substantial  and  leading  yeomen,  the  re- 


sponsible farmers,  the  parochial  magistrates 
and  chiefs  of  villages,  were  tied  two  and  two 
by  the  legs  together;  and  their  tormentors 
throwing  them  with  their  heads  downwards 
over  a  bar,  beat  them  on  the  soles  of  the  feet 
with  ratans,  until  the  nails  fell  from  their  toes; 
and  then  attacking  them  at  their  heads,  as 
they  hung  downward  as  before  at  their  feet, 
they  beat  them  with  sticks  and  other  instru- 
ments of  blind  fury,  until  tlie  blood  gushed 
out  at  their  ej^es,  mouths,  and  noses. 

Not  thinking  that  the  ordinary  whips  and 
cudgels,  even  so  administered,  were  sufficient, 
to  othei-s  (and  often  also  to  the  same,  who  had 
suffered  as  I  have  stated)  they  applied,  instead 
of  ratan  and  bamboo,  whips  made  of  the 
branches  of  the  bale-tree — a  tree  full  of  sharj) 
and  strong  thorns,  which  tear  the  skin  and 
lacerate  the  flesh  far  worse  than  ordinary 
scourges. 

For  others,  exploring  with  a  searching 
and  inquisitive  malice,  stimulated  by  an  in- 
satiate rapacity,  all  the  devious  paths  of  nature 
for  whatever  is  most  unfriendly  to  man,  they 
made  rods  of  a  plant  highly  caustic  and 
poisonous,  called  beckettea,  every  wound  of 
which  festers  and  gangi-enes,  adds  double  and 
treble  to  the  present  torture,  leaves  a  crust  of 
leprous  sores  upon  the  body,  and  often  ends 
in  the  destruction  of  life  itself. 

At  night  these  poor  innocent  suft'erers,  those 
martyrs  of  avarice  and  extortion,  were  brought 
into  dungeons;  and  in  the  season  when  nature 
takes  refuge  in  insensibility  from  aU  the 
miseries  and  cares  which  wait  on  life,  they 
were  three  times  scourged  and  made  to  reckon 
the  watches  of  the  night  by  periods  and  in- 
tervals of  torment.  They  were  then  led  out 
in  the  severe  depth  of  winter — which  there  at 
certain  seasons  would  be  severe  to  any,  to  the 
Indians  is  most  severe  and  almost  intolerable 
— they  were  led  out  before  break  of  day,  and 
stiff  and  sore  as  they  were  with  the  bruises 
and  wounds  of  the  night,  were  plunged  into 
water ;  and  whilst  their  jaws  clung  together 
with  the  cold,  and  their  bodies  were  rendered 
infinitely  more  sensible,  the  blows  and  stripes 
were  renewed  upon  their  backs;  and  then  de- 
livering them  over  to  soldiers,  they  were  sent 
into  their  farms  and  villages  to  discover  where 
a  few  handfuls  of  grain  might  be  found  con- 
cealed, or  to  extract  some  loan  from  the  rem- 
nants of  compassion  and  courage  not  subdued 
in  those  who  had  reason  to  fear  that  their  own 
turn  of  torment  would  be  next,  that  they 
should  succeed  them  in  the  same  punishment, 
and  that  their  very  humanity,  being  taken  as 


230 


EDMUND  BURKE. 


a  proof  of  their  wealth,  wouhl  subject  them 
(as  it  did  in  many  cases  subject  them)  to  the 
same  inhuman  tortures.  After  this  circuit  of 
the  day  through  their  plundered  and  ruined 
villages,  they  weie  remanded  at  night  to  the 
same  prison;  whipped  as  before  at  their  return 
to  the  dungeon,  and  at  morning  whipped  at 
their  leaving  it ;  and  then  sent  as  before  to 
purchase,  by  begging  in  the  day,  the  reitera- 
tion of  the  torture  in  the  night.  Days  of 
menace,  insult,  and  extortion — nights  of  bolts, 
fetters,  and  flagellation — succeeded  to  each 
other  in  the  same  round,  and  for  a  long  time 
made  up  all  the  vicissitudes  of  life  to  these 
miserable  people. 

But  there  are  persons  whose  fortitude 
could  bear  their  own  suffering;  there  are  men 
who  are  hardened  by  their  very  pains ;  and 
the  mind,  strengthened  even  by  the  torments 
of  the  body,  rises  with  a  strong  defiance 
against  its  oppressor.  They  were  assaulted  on 
the  side  of  their  sympathy.  Children  were 
scourged  almost  to  death  in  the  presence  of 
their  parents.  This  was  not  enough.  The  son 
and  father  were  bound  close  together,  face  to 
face,  and  body  to  body,  and  in  that  situation 
cruelly  lashed  together,  so  that  the  blow  which 
escaped  the  father  fell  upon  the  son,  and  the 
blow  which  missed  the  son  wound  over  the 
back  of  the  parent.  The  circumstances  were 
combined  by  so  subtle  a  cruelty,  that  every 
stroke  which  did  not  excruciate  the  sense 
should  wound  and  lacerate  the  sentiments  and 
affections  of  nature. 

On  the  same  principle,  and  for  the  same 
ends,  virgins  who  had  never  seen  the  sun  were 
dragged  from  the  inmost  sanctuaries  of  their 
houses.  .  .  .  Wives  were  torn  from  the  arms 
of  their  husbands,  and  suffered  the  same  flagi- 
tious wrongs,  which  were  indeed  hid  in  the 
bottoms  of  the  dungeons,  in  which  their  hon- 
our and  their  liberty  were  buried  together. 

The  women  thus  ti-eated  lost  their  caste. 
My  lords,  we  are  not  here  to  commend  or 
blame  the  institutions  and  prejudices  of  a 
whole  race  of  people,  radicated  in  them  by  a 
long  succession  of  ages,  on  which  no  reason  or 
argument,  on  which  no  vicissitudes  of  things, 
no  mixture  of  men,  or  foreign  conquests  have 
been  able  to  make  the  smallest  impression. 
The  aboriginal  Gentoo  inhabitants  are  all  dis- 
persed into  tribes  or  castes,  each  caste,  born 
to  have  an  invariable  lank,  rights,  and  de- 
scriptions of  employment;  so  that  one  caste 
cannot  by  any  means  pass  into  another.  With 
the  Gentoos  certain  impurities  or  disgraces, 
though  without  any  guilt  of  the  party,  infer 


loss  of  caste;  and  when  the  highest  caste  (that 
of  the  Brahmin,  which  is  not  only  noble  but 
sacred)  is  lost,  the  person  who  loses  it  does 
not  slide  down  into  one  lower  but  reputable- — 
he  is  wholly  driven  from  ail  honest  society. 
All  the  relations  of  life  are  at  once  dissolved. 
His  parents  are  no  longer  his  parents;  his  wife 
is  no  longer  his  wife;  his  children,  no  longer 
his,  are  no  longer  to  regard  him  as  their  father. 
It  is  something  far  worse  than  complete  out- 
lawry, complete  attainder,  and  universal  ex- 
communication. It  is  a  pollution  even  to 
touch  him,  and  if  he  touches  any  of  his  old 
cjuste  they  are  justified  in  putting  him  to  death. 
Contagion,  leprosy,  plague,  are  not  so  much 
.shunned.  No  honest  occupation  can  be  fol- 
lowed. He  becomes  an  Halichore,  if  (which 
is  rare)  he  survives  that  miserable  degradation. 
Your  lordships  will  not  wonder  that  these 
monstrous  and  oppressive  demands,  exacted 
with  such  tortures,  threw  the  whole  province 
into  desjDair.  They  abandoned  their  crops  on 
the  ground.  The  people  in  a  body  would  have 
fled  out  of  its  confines ;  but  bands  of  soldiers 
invested  the  avenues  of  the  province,  and 
making  a  line  of  circumvallation,  drove  back 
those  wretches,  who  sought  exile  as  a  relief, 
into  the  prison  of  theii'  native  soil.  Not  suf- 
fered to  quit  the  district,  they  fled  to  the  many 
wild  thickets  which  oppression  had  scattered 
through  it,  and  sought  amongst  the  jungles 
and  dens  of  tigers  a  refuge  from  the  tyranny 
of  Warren  Hastings.  Not  able  long  to  exist 
here, pressed  at  once  by  wild  beasts  and  famine, 
the  same  despair  drove  them  back ;  and  seek- 
ing their  last  resource  in  arms,  the  most  quiet, 
the  most  passive,  the  most  timid  of  the  human 
race  rose  up  in  an  universal  insurrection,  and 
(what  will  always  happen  in  popular  tumults) 
the  eftects  of  the  fury  of  the  people  fell  on  the 
meaner  and  sometimes  the  reluctant  instru- 
ments of  the  tyranny,  who  in  several  places 
were  massacred.  The  insurrection  began  in 
Rungpore,  and  soon  spread  its  fire  to  the 
neighbouring  provinces,  which  had  been 
harassed  by  the  same  person  with  the  same 
oppressions.  The  English  chief  in  that  pro- 
vince had  been  the  silent  witness,  most  pro- 
bably the  abettor  and  accomplice,  of  all  these 
horrors.  He  called  in  first  irregular,  and  then 
regular  troops,  who  by  dreadful  and  universal 
military  execution  got  the  better  of  the  im- 
potent resistance  of  unarmed  and  undiscip- 
lined despair.  I  am  tii-ed  with  the  detail  of 
the  cruelties  of  peace.  I  spare  you  those  of  a 
cruel  and  inhuman  war,  and  of  the  executions 
which,   without   law  or  process,  or  even  the 


EDMUND  BURKE. 


231 


shadow  of  authority,  were  ordered   by  the 
English  revenue  chief  in  that  province. 

In  the  name  of  the  Conunoiis  of  England,  I 
charge  all  this  villany  upon  Warren  Hastings, 
in  this  last  moment  of  my  application  to  you. 

My  lords,  what  is  it  that  we  want  here  to 
a  great  act  of  national  justice  ?  Do  we  want 
a  cause,  my  lords  ?  You  have  the  cause  of 
oppressed  princes,  of  undone  women  of  the 
first  rank,  of  desolated  provinces,  and  of  wasted 
kingdoms. 

Do  you  want  a  criminal,  my  lords?  Wlien 
was  there  so  much  iniquity  ever  laid  to  the 
charge  of  any  one  !  No,  my  lords,  you  must 
not  look  to  punish  any  other  such  delinquent 
from  India.  Warren  Hastings  has  not  left 
substance  enough  in  India  to  nourish  such 
another  delinquent. 

My  lords,  is  it  a  prosecutor  you  want  ? 
You  have  before  you  the  Commons  of  Great 
Britain  as  prosecutors,  and  I  believe,  my  lords, 
that  the  sun  in  his  beneficent  progress  round 
the  woi-ld  does  not  behold  a  more  glorious 
sight  than  that  of  men,  separated  from  a 
remote  people  by  the  material  bonds  and  bar- 
riers of  nature,  united  by  the  bond  of  a  social 
and  moral  community — all  the  Commons  of 
England  resenting  as  their  own  the  indignities 
and  cruelties  that  are  offered  to  all  the  people 
of  India. 

Do  we  want  a  tribunal?  My  lords,  no 
example  of  antiquity,  nothing  in  the  modern 
world,  nothing  in  the  range  of  human  imagi- 
nation, can  supply  us  with  a  tribunal  like  this. 
My  lords,  here  we  see  virtually  in  the  mind's 
eye  that  sacred  majesty  of  the  crown,  under 
whose  authority  you  sit,  and  whose  power  you 
exercise.  We  see  in  that  invisible  authority, 
what  we  all  feel  in  reality  and  life,  the  bene- 
ficent powers  and  protecting  justice  of  his 
majesty.  We  have  here  the  heir-apparent  to 
the  crown,  such  as  the  fond  wishes  of  the 
people  of  England  wish  an  heir-apparent  to 
the  ci'own  to  be.  We  have  here  all  the  branches 
of  the  royal  family  in  a  situation  between 
majesty  and  subjection,  between  the  sovereign 
and  the  subject,  ofi'ering  a  pledge  in  that  situa- 
tion for  the  support  of  the  rights  of  the  crown 
and  the  liberties  of  the  people,  both  which 
extremities  they  touch.  My  lords,  we  have  a 
great  hereditary  peerage  here — those  who  have 
their  own  honour,  the  honour  of  their  ances- 
tors and  of  their  posterity,  to  guard,  and  who 
will  justify,  as  they  always  have  justified,  that 
provision  in  the  constitution  by  which  justice 
is  made  an  hereditary  office.     My  lords,  we 


have  here  a  new  nobility,  who  have  risen  and 
exalted  themselves  by  various  merits,  by  great 
military  services,  which  have  extended  the 
fame  of  this  country  from  the  rising  to  the 
setting  sun;  we  have  those  who,  by  various 
civil  merits  and  various  civil  talents,  have  been 
exalted  to  a  situation  which  they  well  deserve, 
and  in  which  they  will  justify  the  favour  of 
their  sovereign  and  the  good  opinion  of  their 
fellow-subjects,  and  make  them  rejoice  to  see 
those  virtuous  characters,  that  were  the  other 
day  upon  a  level  with  them,  now  exalted  above 
them  in  rank,  but  feeling  with  them  in  sym- 
pathy what  they  felt  in  common  with  them 
before.  We  have  persons  exalted  from  the 
practice  of  the  law— fioru  the  place  in  which 
they  administered  high  though  subordinate 
justice — to  a  seat  here,  to  enlighten  with  their 
knowledge  and  to  strengthen  with  their  votes 
those  principles  which  have  distinguished  the 
courts  in  which  they  have  presided. 

My  lords,  you  have  here  also  the  lights  of 
om-  religion;  you  have  the  bishops  of  England. 
.  .  .  You  have  the  representatives  of  that  re- 
ligion whichsays  that  their  God  is  love,  that  the 
very  vital  sjnrit  of  their  institution  is  charity 
— a  religion  which  so  much  hates  oppression, 
that  when  the  God  whom  we  adore  appeared 
in  human  form,  he  did  not  appear  in  a  form  of 
greatness  and  majesty,  but  in  sympathy  with 
the  lowest  of  the  people,  and  thereby  made  it 
a  firm  and  ruling  principle  that  their  welfare 
was  the  object  of  all  government,  since  the 
Person  who  was  the  Master  of  nature  chose 
to  appear  himself  in  a  subordinate  situation. 
These  are  the  considerations  which  influence 
them,  which  animate  them,  and  will  animate 
them,  against  all  oppression,  knowing  that  He 
who  is  called  first  among  them  and  first  among 
us  all,  both  of  the  flock  that  is  fed  and  of  those 
who  feed  it,  made  himself  the  servant  of  all. 

My  lords,  these  are  the  securities  which 
we  have  in  all  the  constituent  parts  of  the 
body  of  this  house.  We  know  them,  we  reckon, 
rest,  upon  them,  and  commit  safely  the  in- 
terests of  India  and  of  humanity  into  your 
hands.  Therefore  it  is  with  confidence  that, 
ordered  by  the  Commons, 

I  impeach  Warren  Hastings,  Esquire,  of 
high  crimes  and  misdemeanoui-s. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  all  the  Com- 
mons of  Great  Britain  in  Parliament  assem- 
bled, whose  parliamentary  trust  he  has  be- 
trayed. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the  Com- 
mons of  Great  Britain,  whose  national  char- 
acter he  has  dishonoured. 


232 


EDMUND   BURKE. 


I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the  people 
of  India,  whose  laws,  rights,  and  liberties  he 
has  subverted,  whose  properties  he  has  de- 
stroyed, whose  country  he  has  laid  waste  and 
desolate. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  and  by  virtue 
of  those  eternal  laws  of  justice  which  he  has 
violateil. 

I  impeach  hira  in  the  name  of  human 
nature  itself,  which  he  has  cruelly  outraged, 
injured,  and  oppressed  in  both  sexes,  in  every 
age,  rank,  situation,  and  condition  of  life. 


CHATHAM   AND   TOWNSHEND. 

(FROM  THE  SPEECH   ON   AMERICAN   TAXATION, 
DELIVERED   APRIL,    1774.) 

I  have  done  with  the  third  period  of  your 
policy,  that  of  your  repeal,  and  the  retui-n  of 
your  ancient  system  and  your  ancient  tran- 
quillity and  concord.  Sir,  this  period  was  not 
as  long  as  it  was  happy.  Another  scene  was 
opened,  and  other  actors  appeared  on  the  stage. 
The  state,  in  the  condition  I  have  described 
it,  was  delivered  into  the  hands  of  Lord 
Chatham — a  great  and  celebrated  name ;  a 
name  that  keeps  the  name  of  this  country 
respectable  in  every  other  on  the  globe.  It 
may  be  truly  called, 

Clarum  et  venerabile  nomen 
Gentibus,  et  multum  nostrse  quod  proderat  urbi. 

Sir,  the  venerable  age  of  this  great  man,  his 
merited  rank,  his  superior  eloquence,  his  splen- 
did qualities,  his  eminent  services,  the  vast 
space  he  fills  in  the  eye  of  mankind,  and, 
more  than  all  the  rest,  his  fall  from  power, 
which,  like  death,  canonizes  and  sanctifies  a 
great  character,  will  not  suffer  me  to  censure 
any  part  of  his  conduct.  I  am  afraid  to 
flatter  him ;  I  am  sure  I  am  not  disposed  to 
blame  him.  Let  those  who  have  betrayed 
him  by  their  adulation  insult  him  with  their 
malevolence.  But  what  I  do  not  presume  to 
censure  I  may  have  leave  to  lament.  For  a 
wise  man  he  seemed  to  me  at  that  time  to  be 
governed  too  much  by  general  maxims.  I 
speak  with  the  freedom  of  history,  and  I  hope 
without  offence.  One  or  two  of  these  maxims, 
flowing  from  an  opinion  not  the  most  indul- 
gent to  our  unhap])y  species,  and  surely  a  little 
too  general,  led  him  into  measures  that  were 
greatly  mischievous  to  himself,  and  for  that 
reason,  among   others,   perhaps   fatal   to  his 


country;  measures  the  effects  of  which,  I  am 
afraid,  are  for  ever  incurable.  He  made  an 
administration  so  checkered  and  speckled,  he 
put  together  a  piece  of  joinery  so  crossly  in- 
dented and  whimsically  dovetailed  ;  a  cabinet 
so  variously  inlaid  ;  such  a  piece  of  diversified 
mosaic;  such  a  tesselated  pavement  without 
cement ;  here  a  bit  of  black  stone  and  there  a 
bit  of  white ;  patriots  and  courtiers,  king's 
friends  and  republicans ;  whigs  and  tories ; 
treacherous  friends  and  open  enemies ;  that  it 
was  indeed  a  very  curious  show,  but  utterly 
unsafe  to  touch,  and  unsure  to  stand  on.  The 
colleagues  whom  he  had  assorted  at  the  same 
boards  stared  at  each  other,  and  were  ob- 
liged to  ask.  Sir,  your  name  ? — Sir,  you  have 
the  advantage  of  me — Mr.  Such-a-one — I  beg 
a  thousand  pardons. — I  venture  to  say,  it  did  so 
happen  that  persons  had  a  single  office  divided 
between  them  who  had  never  spoken  to  each 
other  in  their  lives,  imtil  they  found  them- 
.selves,  they  knew  not  how,  pigging  together, 
heads  and  points,  in  the  same  truckle-bed. 

Sir,  in  consequence  of  this  arrangement, 
having  put  so  much  the  larger  part  of  his 
enemies  and  opposers  into  power,  the  con- 
fusion was  such  that  his  own  principles  could 
not  possibly  have  any  effect  or  influence  in  the 
conduct  of  affairs.  If  ever  he  fell  into  a  fit  of 
the  gout,  or  if  any  other  cause  withdrew  him 
from  public  cai-es,  principles  directly  the  con- 
trary were  sure  to  predominate.  When  he 
had  executed  his  plan  he  had  not  an  inch  of 
ground  to  stand  upon.  When  he  had  accom- 
plished his  scheme  of  administration  he  was 
no  longer  a  minister. 

When  his  face  was  hid  but  for  a  moment 
his  whole  system  was  on  a  wide  sea  without 
chart  or  compass.  The  gentlemen,  his  parti- 
cular friends,  who  with  the  names  of  various 
departments  of  ministry  were  admitted  to 
seem  as  if  they  acted  a  jaart  under  him,  with 
a  modesty  that  becomes  all  men,  and  with  a 
confidence  in  him  which  was  justified  even  in 
its  extravagance  by  his  superior  abilities,  had 
never  in  any  instance  presumed  upon  any 
opinion  of  their  own.  Deprived  of  his  guid- 
ing influence  they  were  whirled  about,  the 
sport  of  every  gust,  and  easily  driven  into  any 
port ;  and  as  those  who  joined  with  them  in 
manning  the  vessel  were  the  most  directly 
opposite  to  his  opinions,  measures,  and  char- 
acter, and  far  the  most  artful  and  powerful  of 
the  set,  they  easily  prevailed  so  as  to  seize  upon 
the  vacant,  unoccupied,  and  derelict  minds  of 
his  friends ;  and  instantly  they  turned  the 
vessel  wholly  out  of  the  course  of  his  ])o]icy. 


EDMUND   BURKE. 


233 


As  if  it  were  to  insult  as  well  as  betray  him, 
even  long  before  the  close  of  the  fii-st  session 
of  his  administration,  when  everything  was 
publicly  transacted,  and  with  great  parade,  in 
his  name,  they  made  an  act  declaring  it  highly 
just  and  expedient  to  raise  a  revenue  in 
America.  For  even  then,  sir,  even  before  this 
splendid  orb  was  entirely  set,  and  while  the 
western  horizon  was  in  a  blaze  with  his  de- 
scending glory,  on  the  opposite  quarter  of  the 
heavens  arose  another  luminary,  and  for  his 
hour  became  loixl  of  the  ascendant. 

This  light  too  is  passed  and  set  for  ever. 
You  understiind,  to  be  sure,  that  I  speak  of 
Charles  Townshend,  officially  the  reproducer 
of  this  fatal  scheme ;  whom  I  cannot  even  now 
remember  without  some  degree  of  sensibility. 
In  truth,  sir,  he  was  the  delight  and  orna- 
ment of  this  house,  and  the  charm  of  every 
private  society  which  he  honoured  with  his 
presence.  Perhaps  there  never  arose  in  this 
country,  nor  in  any  country,  a  man  of  a  more 
pointed  and  finished  wit ;  and  (where  his 
passions  were  not  concerned)  of  a  more  refined, 
exquisite,  and  penetrating  judgment.  If  he 
had  not  so  great  a  stock,  as  some  have  had 
who  flourished  formerly,  of  knowledge  long 
treasured  up,  he  knew  better  by  far  than  any 
man  I  ever  was  acquainted  with  how  to  bring 
together  within  a  short  time  all  that  was 
necessary  to  establish,  to  illustrate,  and  to 
decorate  that  side  of  the  question  he  sup- 
ported. He  stated  his  matter  skilfully  and 
powerfully.  He  particularly  excelled  in  a 
most  luminous  explanation  and  display  of  his 
subject.  His  style  of  argument  was  neither 
trite  nor  vulgar,  nor  subtle  and  abstruse.  He 
hit  the  house  just  between  wind  and  water. 
And  not  being  troubled  with  too  anxious  a 
zeal  for  any  matter  in  question,  he  was  never 
more  tedious  or  more  earnest  than  the  pre- 
conceived opinions  and  pi-esent  temper  of  his 
heai'ers  required  ;  to  whom  he  was  always  in 
perfect  unison.  He  conformed  exactly  to  the 
temper  of  the  house ;  and  he  seemed  to  guide, 
because  he  was  always  sure  to  follow  it. 


THE  DESOLATION  OF   THE  CARNATIC.' 

When  at  length  Hyder  Ali  found  that  he  had 
to  do  with  men  who  either  would  sign  no 
convention,  or  whom  no  treaty  and  no  signa- 
ture could  bind,  and  who  were  the  determined 


1  From  the  speech  on  the  Nabob  of  Arcot's  Debts,  de- 
livered February,  1785. 


enemies  of  human  intercourse  itself,  he  decreed 
to  make  the  country  possessed  by  these  incor- 
rigible and  predestinated  criminals  a  memor- 
able example  to  mankind.  He  resolved,  in 
the  gloomy  recesses  of  a  mind  capacious  of  such 
things,  to  leave  the  whole  Camatic  an  ever- 
lasting monument  of  vengeance ;  and  to  put 
perpetual  desolation  as  a  barrier  between  him 
and  those  against  whom  the  faith  which  holds 
the  moral  elements  of  the  world  together  was 
no  protection.  He  became  at  length  so  confi- 
dent of  his  force,  so  collected  in  his  might, 
that  he  made  no  secret  whatsoever  of  his 
dreadful  resolution.  Having  terminated  his 
disputes  with  every  enemy  and  every  rival, 
who  buried  their  mutual  animosities  in  their 
common  detestation  against  the  creditors  of 
the  nabob  of  Arcot,  he  drew  from  every 
quarter  whatever  a  savage  ferocity  could  ad<l 
to  his  new  rudiments  in  the  arts  of  destruction; 
and  compounding  all  the  materials  of  fury, 
havoc,  and  desolation  into  one  black  cloud, 
he  hung  for  a  while  on  the  declivities  of  the 
mountains.  Whilst  the  authors  of  all  these 
evils  were  idly  and  stupidly  gazing  on  this 
menacing  meteor,  which  blackened  all  their 
horizon,  it  suddenly  burst,  and  poured  down 
the  whole  of  its  contents  upon  the  plains  of 
the  Carnatic- — Then  ensued  a  scene  of  woe 
the  like  of  which  no  eye  had  seen,  no  heai-t 
conceived,  and  which  no  tongue  can  adequately 
tell.  All  the  horrors  of  war  before  known  or 
heard  of  were  mercy  to  that  new  havoc.  A 
storm  of  univei-sal  fire  blasted  every  field, 
consumed  every  house,  destroyed  every  temple. 
The  miserable  inhabitants  flying  from  their 
flaming  villages  in  part  were  slaughtered; 
others,  without  regard  to  sex,  to  age,  to  the 
respect  of  rank,  or  sacredness  of  function ; 
fathers  torn  from  children,  husbands  from 
wives,  enveloped  in  a  whirlwind  of  cavalry, 
and  amidst  the  goading  spears  of  drivei-s,  and 
the  trampling  of  pursuing  horses,  were  swejjt 
into  captivity  in  an  unknown  and  hostile  land. 
Those  who  were  able  to  evade  this  tempest 
fled  to  the  walled  cities.  But  escaping  from 
fire,  sword,  and  exile,  they  fell  into  the  ja'w  s 
of  famine. 

The  alms  of  the  settlement  in  this  dreadful 
exigency  were  certainly  liberal ;  and  all  w;is 
done  by  charity  that  private  charity  could  do: 
but  it  was  a  people  in  beggary;  it  was  a 
nation  which  stretched  out  its  hands  for  food. 
For  months  together  these  creatures  of  sufi'ei-- 
ance,  whose  very  excess  and  luxury  in  their 
most  plenteous  days  had  fallen  short  of  the 
allowance  of  our  austerest  fasts,  silent,  patient, 


234 


ELIZABETH    RYVES. 


resigned,  without  sedition  or  disturbance,  al- 
most without  comphiint,  perished  by  an  hun- 
dred a  day  in  the  streets  of  Madras;  every 
dav  seventy  at  least  laid  their  bodies  in  the 
streets,  or  on  the  glacis  of  Tan j  ore,  and  ex- 
pired of  famine  in  the  granary  of  India.  I 
was  going  to  awake  your  justice  towards  this 
unhappy  part  of  our  fellow-citizens,  by  bring- 
ing before  you  some  of  the  circumstances  of 
this  plague  of  hunger.  Of  all  the  calamities 
which  beset  and  waylay  the  life  of  man  this 
comes  the  nearest  to  our  heart,  and  is  that 
wherein  the  proudest  of  us  aU  feels  himself 
to  be  nothing  more  than  he  is :  but  I  find  my- 
self unable  to  manage  it  with  decorum ;  these 
details  are  of  a  species  of  horror  so  nauseous 
and  disgusting ;  they  are  so  degrading  to  the 
sufferers  and  to  the  hearers;  they  are  so 
humiliating  to  human  nature  itself,  that,  on 
better  thoughts,  I  find  it  more  advisable  to 
throw  a  pall  over  this  hideous  object,  and  to 
leave  it  to  your  general  conceptions. 

For  eighteen  months  without  intermission 
this  destruction  raged  from  the  gates  of  Madras 
to  the  gates  of  Taujore ;  and  so  completely  did 
these  masters  in  their  art,  Hyder  Ali  and  his 
more  ferocious  son,  absolve  themselves  of  their 
impious  vow,  that  when  the  British  armies 
traversed,  as  they  did,  the  Carnatic  for  hun- 
dreds of  miles  in  all  directions,  through  the 
whole  line  of  their-  march  they  did  not  see  one 
man,  not  one  woman,  not  one  child,  not  one 
four-footed  beast  of  any  description  whatever. 
One  dead  uniform  silence  reigned  over  the 
whole  region.  With  the  inconsiderable  ex- 
ceptions of  the  narrow  vicinage  of  some  few 
forts,  I  wish  to  be  understood  as  speaking 
literally.    I  mean  to  produce  to  you  more  than 


tliree  witnesses,  above  all  exception,  who 
will  support  this  assertion  in  its  full  extent. 
That  hurricane  of  war  passed  through  every 
part  of  the  central  provinces  of  the  Cai-natic. 
Six  or  seven  districts  to  the  north  and  to  the 
south  (and  these  not  wholly  untouched)  es- 
caped the  general  ravage. 

The  Cai'natic  is  a  country  not  much  in- 
ferior in  extent  to  England.  Figure  to  your- 
self, Mr.  Speaker,  the  land  in  whose  repre- 
sentative chair  you  sit,  figure  to  yourself  the 
form  and  fashion  of  your  sweet  and  cheerful 
country,  from  Thames  to  Trent  north  and 
south,  and  from  the  Irish  to  the  German  Sea 
east  and  west,  emptied  and  embowelled  (may 
God  avert  the  omen  of  our  crimes !)  by  so 
accomplished  a  desolation.  Extend  your  im- 
agination a  little  further,  and  then  suppose 
your  ministers  taking  a  survey  of  this  scene 
of  waste  and  desolation ;  what  would  be  your 
thoughts  if  you  should  be  informed,  that  they 
were  computing  how  much  had  been  the 
amount  of  the  excises,  how  much  the  customs, 
how  much  the  land  and  malt  tax,  in  order 
that  they  should  charge  (take  it  in  the  most 
favourable  light)  for  public  service,  upon  the 
relics  of  the  satiated  vengeance  of  relentless 
enemies,  the  whole  of  what  England  had 
yielded  in  the  most  exuberant  seasons  of  peace 
and  abundance?  What  would  you  call  it? 
To  call  it  tyranny,  sublimed  into  madness, 
would  be  too  faint  an  image ;  yet  this  very 
madness  is  the  principle  upon  which  the  min- 
isters at  your  right  hand  have  proceeded  in 
their  estimate  of  the  revenues  of  the  Carnatic, 
when  they  were  providing,  not  supply  for  the 
establishments  of  its  protection,  but  rewai'ds 
for  the  authors  of  its  ruin. 


ELIZABETH     RYVES. 


Died  1797. 


[Of  the  early  days  of  Elizabeth  Ryves  little 
or  nothing  is  known  beyond  the  fact  that  she 
was  of  a  good  Irish  family.  While  young  she 
lost  her  property  through  some  trick  of  the 
law,  and,  having  received  a  good  education, 
determined  to  earn  her  living  by  her  pen. 
With  this  view  she  removed  to  London,  where 
in  1777  she  wrote  her  first  work,  The  Prvde, 
a  comic  opera.  The  piece  was  a  good  one, 
V)ut  through  want  of  proper  introductions  or 
from  some  other  cause,  it  was  not  acted.     In- 


deed, it  is  possible  that  the  originality  and 
liigh  tone  of  the  piece  may  have  stood  in  its 
way.  Miss  Ryves'  next  work  was  The  Debt 
of  Honour;  but  the  manager  to  whom  she  sent 
it  kept  it  for  some  years,  when  he  returned  it 
to  her,  and  it  met  with  no  greater  success  than 
her  previous  attempts. 

Turning  from  tlie  unpaying  walk  of  drama- 
tic literature  she  took  to  writing  verses,  a 
volume  of  which  she  published;  but  finding 
that    she    could    get    any   amount   of    them 


ELIZABETH    RYVES. 


235 


printed  yet  with  small  pay  for  the  best,  she 
turned  her  back  upon  jwetry  as  upon  the 
drama,  and  took  to  hack-work  of  another 
kind.  In  a  garret  at  Islington  she  produced 
in  rapid  succession  translations  of  Rousseau's 
Social  Compact,  Raynal's  Letter  to  the  National 
Assembly,  and  De  la  C'hoix's  Review  of  the  Con- 
stitutions of  Europe.  Once  again  financial 
success  failed  to  attend  her,  and  leaving  Isling- 
ton she  returned  to  London.  Though  broken 
down  in  health  and  for  a  time  dispirited,  she 
now  engaged  on  a  translation  of  Fi-oissart, 
but  again  had  little  profit  for  her  laboui". 
Still  bearing  up  under  her  misfortunes  she 
turned  to  another  field,  and  in  1794  jmblished 
The  Hermit  of  Snowden,  a  novel  of  high  merit 
and  deeply  pathetic. 

When  Dodsley  gave  up  the  management  of 
The  Anniuil  Register,  Miss  Ryves,  being  well 
known  as  a  person  of  wide  reading  and  attain- 
ments, was  engaged  to  conduct  the  historical 
and  political  departments.  Notwithstanding 
this  last  engagement,  however,  she  began  to 
find  it  impossible  to  earn  as  much  as  would 
keep  clothes  on  her  body,  a  roof  over  her  head, 
and  sufficient  food  to  eat.  In  her  there  must 
have  been  something  of  the  generous  impro- 
vidence of  Goldsmith,  for  it  is  said  that  on  one 
occasion  she  spent  what  money  she  had  in  buy- 
ing a  joint  of  meat  for  a  destitute  family  that 
lodged  in  a  room  above  her,  while  she  hei^self 
went  diunerless.  Desperate  and  absolute  want 
at  last  brought  on  her  end,  which  occurred  in 
Store  Street,  London, on  the  ^9thof  April,  1797. 


ODE   TO   SENSIBILITY.' 

The  sordid  wretch  who  ne'er  has  known 

To  feel  for  miseries  not  his  own, 

Whose  lazy  pulse  serenely  beats 

While  injured  worth  her  wrongs  repeats; 

Dead  to  each  sense  of  joy  or  pain, 

A  useless  link  in  nature's  chain 

May  boast  the  calm  which  I  disdain. 

Give  me  a  generous  soul,  that  glows 
With  others'  transports,  others'  woes, 
Whose  noble  nature  scorns  to  bend, 
Tho'  Fate  her  iron  scourge  extend, 
But  bravely  bears  the  galling  yoke, 
And  smiles  superior  to  the  stroke 
With  spirits  free  and  mind  unbroke. 

Yet  by  compassion  touched,  not  fear, 
Sheds  the  soft  sympathiziuij:  tear 


1  This  and  the  followiug  pieces  are  from  Poems  on  Seve 
ral  Occasions. 


In  tribute  to  aflSiction's  claim, 
Or  envied  merit's  wounded  fame. 
Let  Stoics  scoflf"!     I'd  rather  be 
Thus  curst  with  sensibility, 
Thau  share  their  boasted  apathy. 


ODE   TO  FRIENDSHIP. 

Fond  Love  witii  all  his  winning  wiles 
Of  tender  looks  and  flattering  smiles, 
Of  accents  that  might  Juno  charm. 
Or  Dian's  colder  ear  alarm; 
No  more  shall  play  the  tyrant's  part, 
No  more  shall  lord  it  o'er  my  heart. 

To  Friendship  (sweet  benignant  power!) 
I  consecrate  my  humble  bower, 
My  lute,  my  muse,  my  willing  miiul, 
And  fix  her  in  my  heart  enshrined; 
She,  heaven-descended  queen,  shall  be 
My  tutelar  divinity. 

Soft  Peace  descends  to  guard  her  reign 
From  anxious  fear  and  jealous  pain; 
She  no  delusive  hopes  displays, 
But  calmly  guides  our  tranquil  days; 
Refines  our  pleasure,  soothes  our  care. 
And  gives  the  joys  of  Eden  here. 


SONG. 


Tho'  love  and  each  harmonious  maid 
To  gentle  Sappho  lent  their  aid, 
Yet,  deaf  to  her  enchanting  tongue, 
Proud  Pliaon  scorned  her  melting  song. 

Mistaken  nymph!  hadst  thou  adored 
Fair  Fortune,  and  her  smiles  implored; 
Had  she  indulgent  owned  thy  claim, 
And  given  thee  wealth  instead  of  fame; 

Tho'  harsh  thy  voice,  deformed  and  old, 
Yet  such  th'  omnipotence  of  gold, 
The  youth  had  soon  confess'd  thy  charms, 
And  flown  impatient  to  thy  arms. 


THE   SYLPH   LOVER. 

A    SON'f;. 

Here  in  this  fragrant  bower  1  dwell. 

And  nightly  here  repose. 
My  couch  a  lily's  snowy  bell, 

My  canopy  a  rose. 
The  honey-dew  each  morn  I  sip 
That  hangs  upon  the  violet's  lip. 


236 


THEOBALD  WOLFE  TONE. 


And  like  the  bee,  from  flower  to  flower 
I  careless  rove  at  noontide  hour. 

Regardless  as  I  lately  strayed 

Along  the  myrtle  grove, 
Enchanting  music  round  me  played, 

Soft  as  the  voice  of  love. 
Thus  its  sweet  murmurs  seem'd  to  say: 
'  Fond,  thoughtless  wanton,  come  away, 
For  while  you  rove  a  rival's  charms 
Wins  thy  Myrtilla  to  his  arms." 


EXTKACT   FROM    "THE   HERMIT   OF 
SNOWDEN." 

[D'Israeli  says  in  his  Calamities  of  Authors, 
that  "  in  the  character  of  Lavinia  our  author- 
ess, with  all  the  melancholy  sagacity  of  genius, 
foresaw  and  has  described  her  own  death :  the 
di-eadfvil  solitude  to  which  she  was  latterly 
condemned  when  in  the  last  stage  of  her 
poverty,  her  frugal  mode  of  life,  her  acute 
sensibility,  her  defrauded  hopes,  and  her  ex- 
alted fortitude."] 


Lavinia's  lodgings  were  about  two  miles 
from  town,  in  an  obscure  situation.  I  wiis 
shown  up  to  a  mean  ajDai-tment,  where  Lavinia 
was  sitting  at  work,  and  in  a  dress  which  indi- 
cated the  greatest  economy.  I  inquired  what 
success  she  had  met  with  in  her  dramatic  pur- 
suits. She  waved  her  head  with  a  melancholy 
smile,  rej^lied  "  that  her  hopes  of  ever  bring- 
ing any  piece  on  the  stage  were  now  entirely 
over,  for  she  found  that  more  interest  was 
necessary  for  the  purpose  than  she  could  com- 
mand, and  that  she  had  for  that  reason  laid 
;uside  her  comedy  for  ever.  While  she  was 
t-alking  came  in  a  favourite  dog  of  Lavinia's 
which  I  had  used  to  caress.  The  creature 
sprang  to  my  arms,  and  I  received  him  with 
my  usual  fondness.  Lavinia  enileavoured  to 
conceal  a  tear  that  trickled  down  her  cheek. 
Afterward  she  said,  "  Now  that  I  live  entirely 
alone,  I  show  Juno  more  attention  than  I 
used  to  do  formerly ;  the  heart  wants  some- 
thing to  be  kind  to,  and  it  consoles  us  for  the 
loss  of  society  to  see  even  an  animal  derive 
happiness  from  the  endearments  we  bestow 
upon  it." 


THEOBALD     WOLFE    TONE. 


Born  1763-  Died  1798. 


[Theobald  Wolfe  Tone  was  the  central  figui'e 
in  the  Society  of  United  Irishmen  formed  in 
Belfast  in  1791,  and  was  known  as  one  of  the 
most  daring  revolutionary  leaders  among  such 
men  as  Emmet,  O'Conner,  Russell,  NeUson, 
Keogh,  and  others.  He  was  born  in  Dublin, 
20th  June,  1763.  His  father  was  a  coach- 
maker  in  good  business ;  but  the  inheritance 
of  a  property  in  county  KUdare,  which  he  let 
to  a  younger  brother,  gave  rise  to  an  unfor- 
tunate lawsuit,  which  almost  ruined  him.  Theo- 
bald tells  us  that  his  l)rothers  as  well  as  him- 
self were  remarkable  for  a  wild  daring  spirit 
and  love  of  adventure;  and  when  he  was  sent 
to  a  school  kept  by  a  Mr.  Darling,  his  master 
acknowledged  that  he  possessed  very  remark- 
able talents  combined  with  much  Avant  of  ap- 
plication. Nothing  could  induce  him  to  work 
but  his  great  love  of  distinction,  which  even 
at  tliis  early  age  was  a  marked  feature  in  his 
character.  By  the  advice  of  tliis  master  Theo- 
bald was  removed  to  the  school  of  the  Rev. 
W.  Craig  for  the  purpose  of  ]ire]»aring  for  a 
university  course,  in  which  it  w;is  decided  he 


would  be  sure  to  gain  distinction.  This  de- 
manded a  sacrifice  on  the  jaart  of  his  father, 
who  was  now  a  poor  man.  It  seems  that  the 
boy  found  he  could  master  his  week's  lessons 
in  three  days,  and  with  a  number  of  the  senior 
boys  who  adopted  the  same  course  he  was  in 
the  habit  of  spending  his  spare  time  in  attend- 
ing the  field-days,  parades,  and  reviews  of  the 
soldiers  in  the  Phoenix  Park.  Here  he  gained 
that  love  of  a  soldier's  life  which  clung  to  him 
ever  afterwards. 

As  the  time  aj^proached  for  liis  entering  the 
university  his  reluctance  to  do  so  increased,  and 
only  the  firmness  and  determination  of  his 
father,  combined  with  his  refusal  to  assist  him 
in  any  other  course,  at  length  prevailed.  He 
Avas  in  his  eighteenth  year  when  he  entered 
Trinity  College,  and  he  relates  that  although 
he  worked  with  a  will  to  prepare  for  his  first 
examination,  yet  he  happened  to  be  examined 
by  "  an  egregious  dunce,  who,  instead  of 
giving  me  the  premium,  which,  as  tlie  best 
answerer,  I  undoubtedly  merited,  awarded  it 
to  another."    He  now  determined  to  abandon 


THEOBALD   WOLFE   TONE. 


237 


his  studies,  and  urged  his  father  to  furnish 
him  with  means  to  take  ])art  in  the  American 
war.  His  father  refused,  and  he  says  that,  in 
revenge,  for  about  twelve  niontiis  lie  did  not 
"  go  near  the  college,  or  open  a  book  that  was 
not  a  military  one."  But  at  length  the  per- 
suasions of  his  friends,  whom  his  rare  charm 
of  manner  had  attracted  to  him  in  his  short 
college  experience,  had  the  desired  effect,  and 
he  returned  to  his  university,  where,  notwith- 
standing loss  of  time  and  occasional  inatten- 
tion, he  gained  in  1784  three  premiums  and  a 
scholarship.  About  this  time  he  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  a  young  lady  named  Matilda 
Witherington.  She  was  very  pretty,  scarcely 
sixteen,  and  the  heiress  of  her  grandfather 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Fanning,  with  whom  she  lived. 
They  soon  became  mutually  attached,  and 
Tone  asked  the  consent  of  her  friends  to  their 
union.  Tliis  was  refused,  and  in  1785  they 
eloped  and  were  married.  The  forgiveness  of 
friends  soon  followed  this  step,  and  Tone  now 
determined  to  adopt  the  law  as  a  settled  profes- 
sion. In  1786  he  graduated  B.A.,  resigned  his 
scholarship,  and  resolved  to  proceed  to  London 
for  the  purpose  of  prosecuting  his  law  studies 
at  the  Temple.  During  his  college  career  he 
had  been  elected  to  the  highly  honourable 
position  of  auditor  in  the  Historical  Society; 
he  delivered  one  of  the  closing  speeches  from 
the  chair,  and  gained  several  of  the  society's 
medals.  Leaving  his  wife  and  child  with  his 
father,  he  arrived  in  London  in  January,  1787, 
and  immediately  entered  his  name  as  a  stu- 
dent at  law  on  the  books  of  the  Middle  Temple; 
but  this,  he  says,  was  all  the  progress  he  ever 
made  in  his  profession.  He  endeavoured  to 
maintain  himself  at  tliis  period  by  contributing 
to  periodical  literature,  but  was  frequently 
indebted  to  the  generosity  of  his  friends  for 
the  means  of  support. 

His  brother  William,  who  had  been  a  ser- 
vant of  the  East  India  Company,  joined  him 
the  year  after  his  arrival  in  London,  and  about 
this  time  Tone,  in  his  then  desperate  circum- 
stances, formed  a  plan  which  he  thought  might 
put  him  in  the  way  to  fame  and  foi'tune. 
This  was  the  establishment  of  a  military  colony 
on  one  of  the  islands  in  the  South  Seas  lately 
disco vei'ed  by  Cook.  He  drew  up  a  state- 
ment of  his  plan  and  laid  it  before  Mr.  Pitt, 
giving  as  a  reason  for  the  proposed  settlement 
that  it  would  tend  to  "put  a  bridle  on  Sjjain 
in  time  of  peace,  and  to  annoy  her  grievously 
in  that  quarter  in  time  of  war."  The  great 
statesman,  however,  took  no  notice  of  this 
communication,  which  slight  so  annoyed  Tone 


as  to  lead  him  to  declare:  "I  made  some- 
thing like  a  vow,  that  if  1  ever  had  the  oppor- 
tunity, I  would  make  Mr.  Pitt  .soiTy,  and  per- 
hajjs  fortune  may  enable  me  to  fulfil  that 
resolution."  A  complaining  letter  from  his 
father  further  iiTitated  him,  and  he  attempted 
to  enlist  in  the  Indian  service.  He  was  too 
late  at  that  time,  but  was  promised  a  chance  in 
the  following  year.  He  did  not  wait  for  this, 
however,  but  returned  to  Dublin,  and  in  17b9 
was  called  to  the  bar,  although  almost  entirely 
ignorant  of  law.  His  wife's  grandfather  pre- 
sented him  with  £500,  and  to  make  up  for  his 
deficiency  in  law  one  of  liis  first  acts  was  to 
purchase  £100  worth  of  law-books  out  of  this 
timely  gift.  His  legal  career  was  short,  and 
although  he  had  wide  acquaintance  among 
the  members  of  the  ])rofession,  and  had 
achieved  a  tolerable  measure  of  success,  yet 
his  hatred  of  it  increased,  and  he  turned  to 
politics  as  a  relief.  His  firet  political  essay 
was  a  pamphlet  in  defence  of  the  AVhig  Club. 
This  was  highly  successful ;  the  club  had  it 
reprinted,  and  elected  Mr.  Tone  a  member. 
About  this  time  he  made  the  acquaintance  of 
Thomas  Russell,  an  ensign,  whose  "identity  of 
sentiment"  formed  a  tie  between  them  w^hich 
lasted  for  life.  Tone's  devotion  to  politics  now 
led  to  the  discovery,  which  he  says  he  might 
liave  found  in  the  pages  of  Swift  or  Molyneux, 
"that  Ireland  would  never  be  either  free,  pro- 
sperous, or  happy,  until  she  was  independent, 
and  that  independence  was  unattainable  while 
the  connection  with  England  existed." 

In  the  summer  of  1790  he  took  a  little 
cottage  at  a  place  called  Irishtown  on  the  sea- 
coast.  Here  he  spent  some  pleasant  months 
in  the  society  of  his  family  and  his  friend 
Russell.  An  appearance  of  disturbance  from 
Spain  led  Russell  to  advise  him  again  to  lay 
his  proposal  for  the  military  colony  before 
government.  This  time  he  was  treated  with 
some  consideration,  but  nothing  resulted  from 
it.  Tone  thus  speaks  of  the  intention  of  Russell 
and  himself  had  the  plan  been  adopted  :  "  We 
were  both  determined  on  going  out  with  the 
expedition,  in  which  case,  instead  of  planning 
revolutions  in  our  own  country,  we  might  be 
now  perhaps  carrying  on  a  i^rivateering  war 
(for  which  I  think  we  both  have  talents)  on 
the  coast  of  Spanish  America."  In  the  winter 
of  this  year  Tone  and  his  friends  formed  a 
political  and  literary  club  in  Belfast ;  and, 
among  other  pamphlets  written  at  this  time, 
he  published  An  Argument  on  Behalf  of  the 
Catholics  oj  Ireland.  In  this  he  pleaded  for 
equal  rights  and  the  advisability  of  a  union 


238 


THEOBALD  WOLFE  TONE. 


for  the  common  cause,  such  as  lie  afterwards 
effected  in  the  Society  of  United  Irishmen.  This 
work  brought  him  into  notice,  which  resulted 
in  his  election  as  paid  secretary  of  the  Catholic 
committee.  About  the  same  time  he  visited 
Belfast  "  in  order  to  assist  in  framing  the  first 
club  of  United  Irishmen."  This  body,  which 
soon  spread  itself  all  over  Ireland,  was  osten- 
sibly pledged  to  union  in  pursuit  of  reform; 
but  the  real  design,  for  a  long  time  only  known 
to  the  leaders,  was  to  effect  a  revolution  and 
establish  a  republic.  The  progress  of  the 
French  revolution  stirred  up  the  minds  of  the 
people  more  and  more;  the  Kev.  William 
Jackson  came  over  as  an  emissary  from  the 
French  government  to  sound  the  Irish  people 
and  find  how  far  they  were  prepared  for  re- 
bellion. Tone  was  in  close  communication 
with  him  from  the  first,  and  offered  to  under- 
take a  mission  to  France  to  arrange  matters; 
Jackson,  however,  revealed  his  object  to  an 
English  attorney  named  Cockayne,  who  be- 
trayed him  to  government,  and  in  April,  1794, 
he  was  arrested.  Tone  was  also  implicated ; 
but  by  the  intervention  of  Lord  Kilwarden 
and  other  powerful  friends,  he  was  pei'mitted 
to  leave  Ireland  so  soon  as  he  could  arrange 
his  atiairs.  The  Catholic  committee  presented 
him  with  ^'300,  with  which  he  paid  his  debts, 
and  in  June,  1795,  he  sailed  with  his  wife,  sister, 
and  three  children  for  America.  The  voyage 
was  not  without  adventure;  they  were  boarded 
by  a  British  cruiser,  and  fifty  of  the  passen- 
gers and  all  but  one  of  the  seamen  pressed 
into  the  naval  service.  Only  the  entreaties  of 
Tone's  wife  and  sister  prevented  him  being 
carried  ofi'  with  the  others.  They  arrived 
safely  at  Philadelphia.  Here  he  met  Hamilton 
Rowan  and  Dr.  Reynolds.  By  the  former  he 
was  presented  to  Citizen  Adet,  the  French 
ambassador  at  Philadelphia.  He  at  once  laid 
before  him  his  plan  for  the  invasion  of  Ireland, 
which  was  favourably  received,  and  at  the  am- 
bassador's request  he  drew  up  a  memorial  for 
presentation  to  the  French  government. 

Tone  now  seems  to  have  had  some  idea  of  set- 
tling down  as  an  American  farmer;  but  in  the 
autumn  he  received  letters  from  Keogh,  Rus- 
sell, and  others,  detailing  the  great  progress  of 
the  cause  in  Ireland,  and  urging  him  to  pro- 
ceed to  France  at  once,  and  endeavour  to  secure 
her  aid  in  the  impending  struggle.  Mrs.  Tone, 
instead  of  throwing  obstacles  in  his  way,  en- 
couraged him  to  proceed  in  liis  duty  to  his 
country,  and  so  on  the  1st  of  January,  1796, 
he  left  for  Paris  with  introduction  to  the 
government  from  Adet.     Arrived  in  Paris,  he 


found  in  the  republican  government  the  reali- 
zation of  his  most  sanguine  dreams.  He  was 
met  on  all  sides  with  a  flattering  reception,  and 
was  created  a  chefcU  brigade.  After  m  uch  de  1  ay, 
negotiations,  and  an  interview  with  Bona- 
parte, the  details  of  the  invasion  were  settled. 
He  embarked  on  the  16th  December,  179(1,  in 
the  Indomitable,  one  of  a  fleet  of  forty-three 
vessels  carrying  15,000  troops  and  a  large  sup- 
ply of  arms  and  ammunition, — General  Hoche 
holding  the  military,  and  Admiral  Morand 
de  Galles  the  naval  command.  But  the 
weather,  which  had  so  often  befriended  Eng- 
land, again  came  to  her  aid;  the  ships  were 
scattered  ;  the  admiral's  vessel  was  separated 
from  the  rest  of  the  fleet,  and  dense  fogs 
seemed  to  protect  the  coast.  On  the  21st 
they  were  off  Cape  Clear,  and  only  thirty  sail 
to  be  seen.  The  intended  descent  on  Bantry 
was  impossible,  as  violent  snowstorms  pre- 
vented them  communicating  with  the  shore. 
Tone  anxiously  urged  the  French  commander 
to  put  him  on  shore  in  Sligo  Bay,  with  the 
Legion  des  Francs  and  as  many  officers  aa 
would  volunteer  for  the  service.  But  the 
commander  would  not  consent  to  this,  and 
after  the  fleet  had  been  tossed  about  for  si.\ 
days  within  a  few  hundred  yards  of  the  shore, 
and  wiis  now  reduced  to  fourteen  sail  through 
a  perfect  hurricane,  the  vessels  made  the  best 
of  their  way  to  Brest,  where,  after  a  highly 
dangerous  passage,  they  arrived  on  the  1st 
January,  1797.  Tone  says  in  his  journal, 
"Well,  England  has  not  had  such  an  escape 
since  the  Spanish  Armada;  and  that  expedi- 
tion, like  ours,  was  defeated  by  the  weather." 
Tone  was  now  raised  to  tlie  rank  of  ad- 
jutant-general to  the  army  of  the  Sambre  and 
Meuse  under  the  command  of  his  friend 
General  Clarke.  His  wife  and  family,  after 
many  difliculties,  arrived  in  Paris,  but  he  was 
not  long  to  enjoy  the  reunion.  In  1798  the 
news  of  the  arrest  of  his  friends  and  the 
breaking  out  of  the  insurrection  in  Ireland 
reached  him.  This  caused  intense  excitement 
among  the  Irish  refugees  in  Paris,  and  Tone 
made  great  efforts  to  organize  an  expedition. 
In  this  critical  state,  while  the  French  govern- 
ment were  considering,  their  general,  Hum- 
bert, with  a  thousand  men,  effected  a  landing 
in  Killala  Bay.  Matthew  Tone  (Theobald's 
brother),  Teeling,  and  Sullivan  were  the  three 
Irishmen  who  accompanied  this  expedition. 
Humbert  landed,  stormed  the  town,  and  held  it 
till  the  appearance  of  General  Lake  with  20,000 
men.  After  a  gallant  resistance  they  were 
obliged  to  surrender  as  prisoners  of  war.    Tone 


THEOBALD  WOLFE   TONE. 


239 


aind  Teeling  were  executed  in  Dublin,  and 
Sullivan,  who  passed  as  a  Frenchman,  escaped. 
Another  attempt  was  made  by  tlie  mass  of  the 
United  Irishmen  in  Paris  with  Nap|)er  Tandy 
as  leader.  They  managed  to  land  at  JJathlin 
and  issued  a  few  ))roclamations ;  but,  hearing 
of  the  failure  of  Humbert's  expedition,  they 
escaped  to  Norway.  The  third  expedition, 
commanded  by  General  Hardy,  consisted  of 
only  one  sail  of  the  line  and  eight  frigates, 
containing  3000  men.  Wolfe  Tone  had  little 
or  no  hope  of  success;  but  although  failure  was 
almost  certain  death  to  him,  he  set  out  with 
this  expedition,  which  started  on  the  20th  of 
September,  1798.  He  assured  his  wife  on 
parting  that  should  death  overtake  him  he 
would  never  submit  to  die  by  the  halter.  The 
admiral  of  the  fleet,  Bompai't,  to  avoid  the 
British  men-of-war,  sailed  to  the  north-east, 
and  after  their  number  was  reduced  by  con- 
trary winds  to  the  Hoche,  the  admiral's  ship, 
in  which  Tone  sailed,  and  thi'ee  frigates,  they 
arrived  in  Lough  Swilly  on  the  11th  October, 
1798.  At  daybreak  the  English  fleet,  which  had 
been  on  the  look-out,  was  seen  bearing  down 
upon  them,  and  the  tide  having  ebbed  it  was 
impossible  for  the  seventy -four  to  escape.  The 
admiral  at  once  signalled  to  the  smaller  vessels 
to  fly,  and  urged  Tone  to  save  himself  by  going 
on  board  one  of  them.  He  answered,  "Shall  it 
be  said  that  I  fled  while  the  French  were 
fighting  the  battles  of  my  country  ] "  The 
Hoche  was  soon  surrounded,  and  attacked  by 
the  Robust  and  Magnanime,  and  shortly  after 
by  three  others.  For  six  hours  the  engage- 
ment continued,  shot  pouring  in  on  all 
sides.  Tone  commanded  a  battery  and  fought 
with  courage  and  bravery.  At  length,  when 
the  Hoche  could  not  reply  with  a  single 
gun,  her  masts,  rigging,  and  hull  shattered, 
and  5  feet  of  water  in  her  hold,  she  struck. 
All  the  other  vessels  which  had  fled  were 
captured  except  two  frigates  and  the  Biche, 
in  which  the  admiral  had  urged  Tone  to  escape. 
The  French  officers  who  survived  were 
made  prisoners,  with  Tone  among  them.  He 
had  so  completely  identified  himself  in  lan- 
guage and  manner  with  Frenchmen  that  he 
was  not  at  first  recognized.  The  French  offi- 
cers were  invited  to  breakfast  with  the  Earl 
of  Cavan,  and  Sir  George  Hill,  who  had  been  a 
fellow-student  of  Tone's  in  Trinity  College, 
recognized  him,  and  gave  information  to  Lord 
Cavan.  He  was  at  once  arrested,  fettered, 
and  sent  to  Dublin,  and  on  the  10th  of  Nov- 
ember, 1798,  he  was  tried  by  court-martial. 
Tone  neither  objected  to  the  court  as  illegal, 


since  he  had  no  commission  in  the  Biitish 
army,  nor  off"ered  any  defence,  but  fully 
admitted  "  all  the  facts  alleged."  He  ma<le 
one  request :  "  I  ask  that  the  court  shall  ad- 
judge me  the  death  of  a  soldier,  and  let  me 
be  shot  by  a  platoon  of  grenadiers.  I  request 
this  indulgence  rather  in  consideration  of  the 
uniform  I  wear — the  uniform  of  a  chef  de 
brigade  in  the  Fiench  army — than  from  any 
personal  regard  to  myself.  In  order  to  evince 
my  claim  to  this  favour,  I  beg  that  the  court 
may  take  the  trouble  to  peruse  my  commission 
and  letters  of  service  in  the  French  army." 
Tone's  request  w;is  refused  by  Lord  Corn- 
wallis,  and  two  days  after  he  was  sentenced 
to  be  hanged  within  forty-eight  hours. 

Mr.  Tone's  friends,  with  the  purpose  of  gain- 
ing time  in  hopes  that  the  French  government 
might  interfere,  moved  for  a  trial  in  the  civil 
courts.  Through  the  influence  of  John  Phil- 
pot  Curran,  Lord  Kilwarden  granted  a  writ 
of  habeas  corpus  to  remove  the  prisoner  from 
the  custody  of  the  military.  But  all  this  was 
rendered  useless  by  Tone  himself.  He  wrote 
to  his  wife  and  to  the  French  Directory,  and 
then  severed  a  blood-vessel  in  his  neck  with 
a  penknife.  On  the  morning  appointed  for 
his  execution  he  was  found  still  living,  but 
weak  from  loss  of  blood.  To  the  surgeon,  who 
was  at  once  in  attendance,  he  said,  "  I  find 
that  I  am  but  a  bad  anatomist."  He  lingered 
for  several  days  in  agony,  and  when  the  sur- 
geon told  him  that  death  would  ensue  on  a 
single  movement,  Tone  at  once  answered,  "I 
can  yet  find  words  to  thank  you,  sir.  It  is 
the  most  welcome  news  you  could  give  me. 
What  should  I  wish  to  live  for?"  These  were 
his  last  words;  he  instantly  exjnred,  19th 
November,  1798.  His  body  was  given  to  a 
kinsman  and  buried  in  Bodenstown  church- 
yard^ county  Kildare.  An  ample  record  of 
Tone's  life  is  contained  in  the  Memoirs,written 
by  himself  and  continued  by  his  son,  with  his 
political  writings,  published  in  Philadelphia 
in  1826.] 


ESSAY   ON   THE   STATE   OF   IRELAND 
IN   1720. 

READ   BEFORE  THE   POLITICAL  CLUB  FORMED   IN 
DUBLIN   IN   1790. 

In  inquiring  into  the  subject  of  this  essay 
I  shall  take  a  short  view  of  the  state  of  this 
country  at  the  time  of  her  greatest  abasement; 
I  mean  about  the  time  when  she  was  supposed 
to  be  fettered  for  ever  by  the  famous  act  of 


240 


THEOBALD   WOLFE  TONE. 


the  6th  of  George  I.,  and  I  shall  draw  my 
facts  from  the  most  indisputable  authority, 
that  of  Swift. 

It  is  a  favourite  cant  under  which  many 
conceal  their  idleness,  and  many  their  corrajj- 
tion,  to  cry  that  there  is  in  the  genius  of  the 
people  of  this  country,  and  particularly  among 
the  lower  ranks,  a  spirit  of  pride,  laziness, 
and  dishonesty,  which  stifles  all  tendency  to 
improvement,  and  will  for  ever  keep  us  a 
subordinate  nation  of  hewers  of  wood  and 
drawers  of  water.  It  may  be  worth  while  a 
little  to  consider  this  opinion,  because,  if  it  be 
well  founded,  to  know  it  so  may  save  me  and 
other  well-wishers  to  Ireland  the  hopeless 
labour  of  endeavouring  to  excite  a  nation  of 
idle  thieves  to  honesty  and  industry ;  and  if 
it  be  not,  it  is  an  error  the  removal  of  which 
will  not  only  wipe  away  an  old  stigma,  but 
in  a  great  degree  facilitate  the  way  to  future 
improvement.  If  we  can  find  any  cause, 
different  from  an  inherent  depravity  in  the 
people,  and  abundantly  sufficient  to  account 
for  the  backwardness  of  this  counti'y  compared 
with  England,  I  hope  no  man  will  volunteer 
national  disgrace  so  far  as  to  prefer  that 
hypothesis  which,  by  degi-ading  his  country, 
degrades  himself. 

Idleness  is  a  ready  accusation  in  the  mouth 
of  him  whose  corruption  denies  to  the  poor 
the  means  of  labour.  "Ye  are  idle,"  said 
Pharaoh  to  the  Israelites  when  he  demanded 
bricks  of  them  and  withheld  the  straw.    .    .    . 

Yet,  surely  misrule,  and  ignorance,  and 
oppression  in  the  government  are  means  suffi- 
cient to  plunge  and  to  keep  any  nation  in 
ignorance  and  poverty,  without  blaspheming 
Providence  by  imputing  innate  and  immov- 
able depravity  to  millions  of  God's  creatures. 
It  is,  at  least,  an  hypothesis  more  honourable 
to  human  nature ;  let  us  try  if  it  be  not  mjsre 
consonant  to  the  reality  of  things.  Let  us  see 
the  state  of  Ireland  in  different  periods,  and 
let  us  refer  those  periods  to  the  maxims  and 
practice  of  her  then  government. 

To  begin  with  the  first  grand  criterion  of 
the  prosperity  of  a  nation.  In  1724  the  popu- 
lation of  Ireland  w:us  1,500,000,  and  in  1672 
1,100,000,  so  that  in  fifty-two  years  it  was  in- 
creased but  one-third,  after  a  civil  war.  The 
rental  of  the  whole  kingdom  was  computed  at 
i,'2,000,000  annually,  of  wliich,  by  absentees, 
about  .£'700,000  went  to  England.  The  revenue 
was  £400,000  per  annum;  the  current  cash 
was  i,'5(i(),()()0,  wliich  in  1727  was  reduced  to 
less  than  £200,000;  and  the  balance  of  trade 
with  England,  the  only  nation  to  which  we 


could  trade,  was  in  our  disfavour  about 
£1,000,000  annually.  Such  were  the  resources 
of  Ireland  in  1724. 

Commerce  we  had  none,  or  what  was  worse 
than  none,  an  exportation  of  raw  materials  for 
half  their  value ;  an  importation  of  the  same 
materials  wrought  up  at  an  immense  profit  to 
the  English  manufacturer;  the  indisjDensable 
necessaries  of  life  bartered  for  luxuries  for 
our  men  and  fopperies  for  our  women;  not 
only  the  wine,  and  coffee,  and  silk,  and  cotton, 
but  the  very  corn  we  consumed  was  imported 
from  England. 

Our  benches  were  filled  with  English  law- 
yers ;  our  bishoprics  with  English  divines ; 
our  custom-house  with  English  commissioners; 
all  offices  of  state  filled,  three  deej),  with 
Englishmen  in  possession,  Englishmen  in  re- 
vereion,  and  Englishmen  in  expectancy.  The 
majority  of  these  not  only  aliens,  but  ab- 
sentees, and  not  only  absentees,  but  busily 
and  actively  employed  against  that  country 
on  whose  vitals  and  in  whose  blood  they  were 
rioting  in  ease  and  luxury.  Every  proposal 
for  the  advantage  of  Ireland  was  held  a  direct 
attack  on  the  interests  of  England.  Swift's 
pamphlet  on  the  expediency  of  wearing  our 
own  manufactures  exposed  the  printer  to  a 
prosecution,  in  which  the  jury  were  sent  back 
by  the  chief-justice  nine  times,  till  they  were 
brow-beaten,  and  bullied,  and  wearied  into  a 
special  verdict,  leaving  the  printer  to  the 
mercy  of  the  judge. 

The  famous  project  of  Wood  is  known  to 
every  one;  it  is  unnecessary  to  go  into  the 
objections  against  it,  but  it  is  curious  to  see 
the  mode  in  which  that  ruinous  plan  was 
endeavoured  to  be  forced  down  our  thi'oats. 
Immediately  on  its  promulgation  the  two 
Houses  of  Parliament,  the  privy-council,  the 
merchants,  the  traders,  the  manufacturers,  the 
grand- juries  of  the  whole  kingdom,  by  votes, 
resolutions,  and  addresses  testified  their  dread 
and  abhorrence  of  the  jslan.  What  was  the 
conduct  of  the  English  minister  1  He  calls  a 
committee  of  the  English  council  together; 
he  examines  Mr.  Wood  on  one  side,  and  two 
or  three  prepared,  obscure,  and  interested 
witnesses  on  the  other;  he  nonsuits  the  whole 
Irish  nation;  thus  committed  with  Mr.  WiUiam 
Wood,  he  puts  forth  a  proclamation,  com- 
manding all  persons  to  receive  his  halfpence 
in  payment,  and  calls  the  votes  of  the  Houses 
of  Lords  and  Commons  and  the  resolutions  of 
the  Privy-council  of  Ireland  a  clamour.  But 
Swift  had  by  this  time  raised  a  spirit  not  to 
be  laid  by  the  anathema  of  the  British  minister; 


THEOBALD   WOLFE   TONE. 


241 


the  project  was  driven  as  far  as  the  verge  of 
civil  war;  there  it  was  stopped;  and  this  was  ! 
the  first  signal  triumph  of  the  virtue  of  the  i 
people  in  Ireland. 

In  one  of  his  inimitable  letters  on  the  ' 
subject  of  Wood's  halfpence,  Swift,  with  a  ' 
daring  and  a  generous  indignation  worthy 
of  a  better  age  and  country,  had  touched 
on  the  imaginary  dependence  of  Ireland  on 
England.  The  bare  mention  of  a  doubt  on 
the  subject  had  an  instantaneous  effect  on 
the  nerves  of  the  English  government  here. 
A  proclamation  was  issued  offering  £300  for 
the  author  ;  the  printer  wa-s  thrown  into  jail ; 
the  grand-jury  were  tampered  with  to  present 
the  letter,  and,  on  theii-  refusing  to  do  so, 
were  dissolved  in  a  rage  by  the  chief- justice, 
a  step  without  a  precedent,  save  one,  which 
happened  in  the  time  of  James  II.,  and  was 
followed  by  an  immediate  censure  of  the 
House  of  Commons  of  England.  Yet  all  that 
Swift  had  said  was  that,  "  under  God,  he 
could  be  content  to  depend  only  on  the  king 
his  sovereign,  and  the  laws  of  his  own  country; 
that  the  Parliament  of  England  had  sometimes 
enacted  laws  binding  Ireland,  but  that  obedi- 
ence to  them  was  but  the  result  of  necessity, 
inasmuch  as  eleven  men  well  armed  will  cer- 
tainly subdue  one  man  in  his  shirt,  be  his 
cause  ever  so  righteous,  and  that,  by  the  laws 
of  God,  of  nature,  and  of  nations.  Irishmen 
were,  and  ought  to  be,  as  free  as  their  brethren 
in  England  "  We,  who  live  at  this  day,  see 
nothing  like  sedition,  privy  conspiracy,  or 
rebellion  in  all  this ;  and  we  may  bless  God 
for  it ;  but  in  1724  the  case  was  very  different. 
The  printer  was  prosecuted,  and  died  in  jail; 
Swift  escaped,  because  it  was  impossible  to 
bring  it  home  to  him;  and  so  little  were  the 
minds  of  men  prepared  for  such  opinions,  that, 
in  a  paper  addressed  to  the  gi'aud-jury  who 
weie  to  sit  on  the  bills  of  indictment,  Swift  is 
obliged  to  take  shelter  under  past  services, 
and  admit  that  the  words  which  were  taken 
up  by  government  as  offensive  were  the  result 
of  inadvertency  and  unwariness. 

The  famous  act  of  the  6th  of  George  I.,  Swift, 
with  all  his  intrepidity,  does  no  more  than 
obscurely  hint  at,  a  crying  testimony  to  the 
miserable  depression  of  spirit  in  this  country, 
when  the  last  rivet,  driven  into  her  fetters  and 
clenched,  as  England  hoped,  for  ever  could  not 
excite  more  than  an  indistinct  and  half-sup- 
pressed murmur. 

From  this  brief  sketch  it  appears  that  no 
prospect  could  be  more  hopeless  than  that  the 
star  of  liberty  should  again  arise  in  Ireland. 
Vol.  I. 


1  f ,  notwithstanding  the  impenetrable  cloud  in 
which  she  .seemed  buried  for  ever,  she  has  yet 
broke  forth  with  renovated  splendour,  and 
again  kindled  the  spirit  of  the  people,  surely 
it  Is  a  grand  fact,  overbearing  at  once  the 
efforts  of  thousands  of  corrupt  cavillers,  who 
cry  out  that  this  is  not  a  nation  capable  of 
political  virtue  or  steady  exertion. 


INTERVIEWS   WITH    BUONAPAETE. 

(EXTRACTS  FROM  TONE'S  JOURNAL,  DECEMBER,  1797.) 

General  Desaix  brought  Lewines  and  me 
this  morning  and  introduced  us  to  Buonaparte, 
at  his  house  in  the  Rue  Chanteraine.  He  lives 
in  the  greatest  simplicity ;  his  house  is  small, 
but  neat,  and  all  the  furniture  and  ornaments 
in  the  most  classical  taste.  He  is  about  five 
feet  six  inches  high,  slender,  and  well  made, 
but  stoops  considerably ;  he  looks  at  least  ten 
years  older  than  he  is,  owing  to  the  great 
fatig\ies  he  underwent  in  his  immortal  cam- 
paign of  Italy.  His  face  is  that  of  a  profound 
thinker,  but  bears  no  mai-k  of  that  great  en- 
thusiasm and  unceasing  activity  by  which  he 
has  been  so  much  distinguished.  It  is  rather, 
to  my  mind,  the  countenance  of  a  mathema- 
tician than  of  a  general.  He  has  a  fine  eye, 
and  a  great  firmness  about  his  mouth ;  he 
speaks  low  and  hollow.  So  much  for  his 
manner  and  figure.  We  had  not  much  dis- 
course with  him,  and  what  little  there  was, 
was  between  him  and  Lewines,  to  whom,  as 
our  ambassador,  I  gave  the  'pas.  We  told 
him  that  Tenuant  was  about  to  depart  for 
Ireland,  and  was  ready  to  charge  himself  with 
his  oi-ders  if  he  had  any  to  give.  He  desired 
us  to  bring  him  the  same  evening,  and  so  we 
took  our  leave.  In  the  evening  we  returned 
with  Tennant,  and  Lewines  had  a  good  deal 
of  conversation  with  him ;  that  is  to  say,  he 
insensed  him  a  good  deal  into  Irish  affairs,  of 
which  he  appears  a  good  deal  uninformed; 
for  example,  he  seems  convinced  that  our 
population  is  not  more  than  two  millions, 
which  is  nonsense.  Buonaparte  listened,  but 
said  very  little.  When  all  this  was  finished, 
he  desired  that  Tennant  might  put  off  his 
departure  for  a  few  days,  and  then,  turning  to 
me,  asked  whether  I  was  not  an  adjutant- 
general.  To  which  I  answered,  that  I  had 
the  honour  to  be  attached  to  General  Hoche 
in  that  capacity.  He  then  asked  me  where  I 
had  learned  to  speak  French.     To  which  I 

16 


242 


THEOBALD  WOLFE  TONE. 


replied,  that  I  had  learned  the  little  that  I 
knew  since  my  arrival  in  France,  about  twenty 
months  ago.  He  then  desired  us  to  return 
the  next  evening  but  one,  at  the  same  hour, 
and  so  we  parted.  As  to  my  French  I  am 
ignorant  whether  it  was  the  puiity  or  barbar- 
ism of  my  diction  which  drew  his  attention, 
and  as  I  shall  never  inquire  it  must  remain 
as  an  historical  doubt,  to  be  investigated  by 
the  learned  of  futui-e  ages. 

Jamiary  6th. — Saw  Buonaparte  this  evening 
with  Lewines,  who  delivered  him  a  whole 
sheaf  of  papers  relative  to  Ireland,  including 
my  two  memorials  of  1795,  great  part  of  which 
stands  good  yet.  After  Lewines  had  had  a 
good  deal  of  discourse  with  him,  I  mentioned 
the  atFair  of  M'Kenua,  who  desires  to  be  em- 
ployed as  secretary.  Buonaparte  observed 
that  he  believed  the  world  thought  he  had 
fifty  secretaries,  whereas  he  had  but  one; 
of  course  there  was  an  end  of  that  business; 
however,  he  bid  me  see  what  the  man  was  fit 
for,  and  let  him  know.  I  took  this  oppor- 
tunity to  mention  the  desire  all  the  refugee 
United  Irishmen,  now  in  Paris,  had  to  bear  a 
part  in  the  expedition,  and  the  utility  they 
would  be  of  in  case  of  a  landing  in  Ireland. 
He  answered  that  they  would  all  be  undoubt- 
edly, and  desired  me  to  give  him  in,  for  that 
purpose,  a  list  of  their  names.  Finally,  I  spoke 
of  myself,  telling  him  that  General  Desaix 
had  informed  me  that  I  was  carried  on  the 
tableau  of  the  Armee  d' Angleterre ;  he  said  I 
was.  I  then  observed  that  I  did  not  pretend 
to  be  of  the  smallest  use  to  him  whilst  we 
were  in  France,  but  that  I  hoped  to  be  service- 
able to  him  on  the  other  side  of  the  water; 
that  I  did  not  give  myself  at  all  to  him  for  a 
military  man,  having  neither  the  knowledge 
nor  the  experience  that  would  justify  me  in 
charging  myself  with  any  function.  "Mais 
vous  etes  brave,"  said  he,  interrupting  me.  I 
replied  that,  when  the  occasion  presented  it- 
self, that  would  appear.  "  Eh  bien,"  said  he, 
"  cela  suffi,t."     We  then  took  our  leave.  .  .  . 

We  have  now  seen  the  gi-eatest  man  in 
Europe  three  times,  and  I  am  astonished  to 
think  how  little  I  have  to  record  about  him. 
I  am  sure  I  wrote  ten  times  as  much  about 
my  first  interview  with  Charles  de  la  Croix, 
but  then  I  was  a  greenhorn ;  I  am  now  a  little 
used  to  see  great  men,  and  great  statesmen, 
and  great  generals,  and  that  has,  in  some 
degree,  broke  down  my  admiration.  Yet, 
after  all,  it  is  a  droll  thing  that  I  should  be- 
come acquainted  with  Buonaparte.  This  time 
twelve  months  I   arrived  in  Brest  from  my 


expedition  to  Bantry  Bay.  Well,  the  third 
time,  they  say,  is  the  charm.  My  next  chance, 
I  hope,  will  be  with  the  Armee  d' Anffleterre. — 
Allans/    Vive  la  Republique ! 

April  1st. — Lewines  waited  yesterday  on 
Merlin,  who  is  President  of  the  Directory  for 
this  Trimestre,  and  pi^esented  him  a  letter  of 
introduction  from  Talleyrand.  Merlin  re- 
ceived him  with  great  civility  and  attention. 
Lewines  pressed  him  as  far  as  he  could  with 
propriety  on  the  necessity  of  sending  succoui-s 
to  Ireland  the  earhest  possible  moment,  es- 
pecially on  account  of  the  late  arrestations ; 
and  he  took  that  occasion  to  impress  him  with 
a  sense  of  the  merit  and  services  of  the  men 
for  whom  he  interested  himself  so  much  on 
every  account,  public  and  personal.  Merlin 
replied  that,  as  to  the  time  or  place  of  succour 
he  could  tell  him  nothing,  it  being  the  secret 
of  the  state;  that,  as  to  the  danger  of  his  friends, 
he  was  sincerely  sorry  for  the  situation  of  so 
many  brave  and  virtuous  patriots ;  that,  how- 
ever, though  he  could  not  enter  into  the  details 
of  the  intended  expedition,  he  would  tell  him 
thus  much  to  comfort  him,  "  That  France 
never  icould  grant  a  peace  to  England  on  any 
terms  short  of  the  independence  of  Ireland." 
This  is  grand  news.  It  is  far  more  direct  and 
explicit  than  any  assurance  we  have  yet  got. 
Lewines  made  the  proper  acknowledgments, 
and  then  ran  ofi"  to  me  to  communicate  the 
news.  The  fact  is,  whatever  the  rest  of  our 
countrymen  here  may  think,  Lewines  is  doing 
his  business  here  fair  and  well,  and  like  a  man 
of  honour.  I  wish  others  of  them  whom  I 
could  name  had  half  as  good  principles. 

May  20th. — During  my  stay  in  Paris  I  read 
in  the  English  papers  a  long  account  from  the 
Dublin  Joxtrnal  of  a  visitation  held  by  the 
chancellor  in  Trinity  College,  the  result  of 
which  was  the  expulsion  of  nineteen  students, 
and  the  suspension  for  three  years  of  my  friend 
Whitley  Stokes.  His  crime  was,  having  com- 
municated to  Sampson,  who  communicated  to 
Lord  Moira,  a  paper  which  he  had  previously 
transmitted  to  the  lord-lieutenant,  and  which 
contained  the  account  of  some  atrocious  enor- 
mities committed  by  the  British  troops  in  the 
south  of  Ireland.  Far  less  than  that  would 
suffice  to  destroy  him  in  the  chancellor's  opin- 
ion, who,  by-the-by,  has  had  an  eye  upon  him 
this  long  time ;  for  I  remember  he  summoned 
Stokes  before  the  secret  committee  long  before 
I  left  Ireland.  I  do  not  know  whether  to  be 
vexed  or  pleased  at  this  event,  as  it  regards 
Whitley ;  I  only  wish  he  had  taken  his  part 
more  decidedly;  for,  as  it  is,  he  is  destroyed 


CHARLES   JOHNSTONE. 


243 


with  one  party,  and  I  am  by  no  means  clear 
that  he  is  saved  with  the  other.  He,  like 
Parsons  and  Moira,  have  either  their  consci- 
ences too  scrupulous,  or  their  minds  too  little 
enlarged,  to  embrace  the  only  line  of  conduct 


in  times  like  ours.  They  must  be  with  the 
people  or  against  them,  and  that  for  the  whole, 
or  they  must  be  content  to  go  down  without 
the  satisfaction  of  serving  or  pleasing  any 
party. 


CHARLES    JOHNSTONE. 


Born  1719  — Died  1800. 


[Charles  Johnstone,  a  satirist  of  such  power 
as  to  be  called  by  Sir  Walter  Scott  "  a  prose 
Juvenal,"  was  born  in  the  county  of  Limerick 
in  the  year  1719,  and  is  said  to  have  been 
descended  from  the  Johnstones  of  Annandale 
in  Scotland.  Of  his  early  career  little  is 
known,  except  that  he  had  the  benefit  of  a 
classical  education,  that  he  studied  for  the 
bar,  and  that  on  being  called  he  chose  to  prac- 
tise in  England.  Being  affected  with  a  degree 
of  deafness  he  was  principally  engaged  as  a 
chamber  counsel,  and  was  comparatively  suc- 
cessful. Notwithstanding  his  defect  of  hear- 
ing, in  general  society  he  was  welcomed  as  a 
lively  and  companionable  man. 

About  1759,  while  on  a  visit  to  Lord  Mount 
Edgecumbe  in  Devonshire,  Johnstone  amused 
his  leisure  hours  by  the  production  of  a 
rude  sketch  of  his  lirst  work.  This  appeared 
in  1760  under  the  title  of  Chrysal;  or,  The 
Adventures  of  a  Guinea,  and  is  a  political 
romance  not  unlike  the  Diable  Boiteux.  As 
it  set  forth  in  strong  colours  the  secret  history 
of  some  political  intrigues  on  the  Continent, 
and  contained  piquant  sketches  of  celebrated 
living  characters,  it  became  at  once  a  success, 
and  a  second  edition,  with  additions,  was 
produced  and  disposed  of  almost  immediately. 
In  1761  a  third  edition,  with  such  further 
additions  as  increased  the  work  to  four  vol- 
umes, was  issued  and  disposed  of. 

Encouraged  by  this  success  Johnstone  con- 
tinued to  use  his  pen,  and  in  1762  published 
another  satire  entitled  The  Reverie,  or  a 
Flight  to  the  Paradise  of  Fools.  This  was 
followed  in  1774  by  The  History  of  Arsaces, 
Prince  of  Betlis,  a  sort  of  political  romance. 
In  1775  appeared  The  Pilgrim,  or  a  Picture  of 
Life;  and  in  1781,  The  History  of  John  Juniper, 
Fsquire,  alias  Jimiper  Jack,  a  I'omance  of  low 
life,  as  its  name  would  almost  indicate. 

By  this  time,  as  was  to  be  expected,  the  in- 
terest in  his  satirical  works  had  somewhat 
subsided,  and  his  other  works  having  been 


only  moderately  successful,  Johnstone  deter- 
mined to  try  his  fortune  in  another  part 
of  the  world,  and  accorilingly  in  1782  started 
for  India.  On  his  way  thither  he  was  ship- 
wrecked, but  his  hfe  was  saved,  and  he  finally 
reached  Bengal.  In  India,  as  at  home,  he  still 
continued  to  write,  but  there  his  work  was 
chiefly  for  newspapers,  and  appeared  over  the 
signature  of  "  Onciropolos."  In  a  short  time 
he  became  one  of  the  joint  proprietors  of  a 
Bengal  paper,  and  acquired  a  considerable  for- 
tune before  his  death,  which  occurred  in  1800. 
In  a  comparison  of  Johnstone  and  Le  Sage 
Sir  Walter  Scott  has  the  followijig  remarks : — 
"  As  Le  Sage  renders  vice  ludicrous,  Johnstone 
seems  to  paint  even  folly  as  detestable  as  well 
as  ludicrous.  His  Herald  and  Auctioneer  are 
among  his  lightest  characters,  but  their  deter- 
mined roguery  and  greediness  render  them 
hateful  even  while  they  are  comic."  In  an- 
other place  Scott  says  of  Johnstone :  "  His 
language  is  firm  and  energetic,  his  power  of 
personifying  character  striking  and  forcible, 
and  the  persons  of  his  narrative  move,  breathe, 
and  speak  in  all  the  freshness  of  life.  His 
sentiments  are  in  general  those  of  the  bold, 
high-minded,  and  indignant  censor  of  a  loose 
and  corrupted  age ;  yet  it  cannot  be  denied 
that  Johnstone,  in  his  hatred  and  contempt 
for  the  more  degenerate  vices  of  ingratitude, 
avarice,  and  baseness  of  every  kind,  shows  but 
too  much  disjaosition  to  favour  Churchill  and 
other  libertines,  who  thought  fit  to  practise 
open  looseness  of  manners,  because,  they  said, 
it  was  better  than  hypocrisy."] 


POET   AND   PUBLISHER! 

My  new  master  was  one  of  those  aspiring 
geniuses  whom  desperate  circumstances  drive 
to  push  at  everything,  and  court  consequences 


1  This  extract  is  from  Chrysal. 


244 


CHAELES   JOHNSTONE. 


the  bare  apprelieusion  of  which  terrifies  men 
who  have  some  character  and  fortune  to  lose 
out  of  their  senses.  He  was  that  evening  to 
meet  at  a  tavern  an  author  the  boldness  and 
beauty  of  whose  writings  had  for  some  time 
engaged  the  public  attention  in  a  particular 
manner,  and  made  his  numerous  admirers 
tremble  for  his  safety. 

As  he  happened  to  outstay  his  time,  my 
master's  importance  took  offence  at  a  freedom 
which  he  thought  so  much  out  of  character. 

"  This  is  very  pretty,  truly  !"  (said  he,  walk- 
ing back  and  forward  in  a  chafe),  "that  I 
should  wait  an  hour  for  an  author.  It  was 
his  business  to  have  been  here  first  and  waited 
for  me,  biit  he  is  so  puffed  up  of  late  that  he  has 
quite  forgot  himself.  Booksellers  seldom  meet 
with  such  insolence  fiom  authors.  I  should 
serve  him  right  to  go  away  and  disappoint 
him.  But  would  not  that  disappoint  myself 
more?  He  is  come  into  such  vogue  lately 
that  the  best  man  in  the  trade  would  be  glad 
to  get  him.  Well,  if  he  does  not  do  what  I 
want,  I  know  not  who  can !  Fools  may  be  fright- 
ened at  the  thoughts  of  a  cart's  tail  or  a  pillory, 
I  know  better  things.  Where  they  come  in  a 
popular  cause  nothing  sets  a  man's  name  up  to 
such  advantage,  and  that's  the  fii-st  step  towards 
making  a  fortune  ;  as  for  the  danger,  it  is  only 
a  mere  bugbear  while  the  mob  is  on  my  side. 
And  therefore  I  will  go  on  without  fear,  if  I 
am  not  bought  off.  A  pension  or  a  pillory  is 
the  word." 

These  heroic  meditations  were  inten-upted 
by  the  entrance  of  the  author,  who,  throwing 
himself  carelessly  into  a  chair,  "  I  believe 
I  have  made  you  wait,"  said  he,  "  but  I  could 
not  help  it.  I  was  obliged  to  stay  to  kick  a 
puppy  of  a  printer  who  had  been  impertinent; 
as  I  am  to  meet  company  directly,  so  let  me 
hear  what  you  have  to  say." 

"  I  thouglit,  sir,"  answered  my  master  with 
an  air  of  offended  importance,  "  you  had  ap- 
pointed me  to  meet  you  here  on  business,  and 
business,  you  know,  cannot  be  hurried  over 
so  soon." 

"  Don't  mention  business  to  me,  I  hate  the 
very  name  of  it,  and  as  to  any  that  can  pos- 
sibly be  between  you  and  me,  it  may  be 
done  in  five  minutes  as  well  as  five  years; 
so  speak  directly,  and  without  further  pre- 
amble, for  all  your  finesse  could  have  no 
effect  upon  me,  even  if  I  would  submit  to  let 
you  try  it." 

"  Finesse,  sir !  I  do  not  know  what  you 
mean !  I  defy  the  world  to  charge  me  with 
ever  having  been  guilty  of  any.     The  business 


I  desired  to  meet  you  upon  was  about  a  poem 
I  was  informed  you  had  ready  for  the  press, 
and  which  I  shoidd  be  glad  to  treat  with  you 
for."— 

"  Well,  sir,  and  what  will  you  give  me  for 
it?  Be  quick,  for  I  cannot  wait  to  make 
many  words." 

"  What !  before  I  have  seen  it  ?  It  is  im- 
possible for  me  to  say  till  I  have  looked  it 
over  and  can  judge  what  it  is,  and  how  much 
it  will  make." 

"  As  to  your  judging  what  it  is,  that  must 
depend  upon  inspiration,  which  I  imagine  you 
will  scarcely  make  pretence  to  till  you  turn 
Methodist  at  least;  but  for  what  it  will  make 
here  it  is,  and  you  may  judge  of  that  while  I 
go  down  stairs  for  a  few  minutes." 

Saying  which  he  gave  him  a  handful  of  loose 
papers  and  left  the  room. 

The  first  thing  my  master  did  when  left 
thus  to  form  his  judgment  of  a  work  of  genius 
was  to  number  the  pages,  and  then  the  lines 
in  a  page  or  two,  by  the  time  he  had  done 
which  the  author  returned,  and,  taking  the 
papers  out  of  his  hand,  "  Well,  sir,"  said  he, 
"and  what  is  the  result  of  your  judgment?" 

"  Why,  really,  sir,"  answered  my  master 
after  some  pause,  "I  hardly  know  what  to  say; 
I  have  cast  off  the  copy,  and  do  not  think  that 
it  will  make  more  than  a  shilling,  however 
pompously  printed." 

"  What  you  think  it  will  make  is  not  the 
matter,  but  what  you  will  give  me  for  it.  I 
sell  my  work  by  the  quality,  not  the  quan- 
tity." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  the  quality  of  them  in  the 
least ;  but  considering  how  much  the  trade  is 
ovei'stocked  at  present,  and  what  a  mere  drug 
poetry  has  long  been,  I  am  a  good  deal  at  a 
loss  what  to  offer,  as  I  should  be  unwilling  to 
give  you  or  any  gentleman  offence  by  seeming 
to  undervalue  your  works.  WTiat  do  you 
think  of  five  guineas?  I  do  not  imagine 
that  moi'e  can  be  given  for  so  little,  nor,  in- 
deed, should  I  be  fond  of  giving  even  that  but 
in  compliment  to  you  ;  I  have  had  full  twice 
as  much  for  two  many  a  time." 

"  Much  good  may  your  bargain  do  you,  sir ; 
but  I  will  not  take  less  than  fifty  for  mine  in 
compliment  to  you,  or  any  bookseller  alive; 
and  so,  sir,  I  desire  to  know  without  more 
words  (for  I  told  you  before  that  your  elo- 
i[uence  would  be  thrown  away  u])on  me!) 
whether  you  will  give  that,  as  I  am  in  haste 
to  go  to  company  nmch  more  agreeable  to  me 
than  yours." — 

"What,  sir!    fifty  guineas   for  scarce  five 


ISAAC  BICKEESTAFF. 


245 


luindred  lines  !  Such  a  thing  was  never  lieanl 
of  in  the  trade." — 

"Confound  your  trade,  and  you  together! 
Here,  waiter  !  what  is  to  pay?" — 

"But,  dear  sir!  why  will  you  be  in  such  a 
hurry  ?  can  you  not  give  yourself  and  me  time 
to  consider  a  little  ?  Perhaps  we  might  come 
nearer  to  each  other ! " — 

"  I  have  told  you  before,  and  I  repeat  it 
again,  that  I  will  have  so  much,  and  that 
without  more  words." — 

"  You  are  very  peremptory,  sii-,  but  you 
know  your  own  value,  and  therefore  in  hopes 
you  will  let  me  have  more  for  my  money  next 
time,  I  will  venture  to  give  you  your  price 
now,  though  really  if  it  w;is  not  for  your  name 
I  could  not  possibly  do  it,  but  to  be  sure  that 
is  worth  a  shilling  extraordinary,  I  own." 

"Which  is  twelve  pence  more  than  yours 
ever  will  be,  unless  to  the  ordinary  of  New- 
gate.— But  come  !  give  me  the  money,  I  want 
to  go  to  my  company." — 


"Well,  sir,  this  is  a  hasty  bargain,  but  I  take 
it  upon  your  word,  and  don't  doubt  but  there 
is  merit  in  it,  to  answer  such  a  price.  Satire, 
sir!  keen  satire,  and  so  j)lain  that  he  who  runs 
may  read,  as  the  saying  is,  is  the  thing  now 
o'  days.  Where  there  is  any  doubt  or  difficulty 
in  the  application  it  takes  off  the  pleasure  from 
the  generality  of  readers.  That,  sii',  is  your 
great  merit.  Satire  must  be  personal,  or  it 
will  never  do." — 

"  Personal !  that  mine  never  shall  be.  Vices, 
not  pereons,  are  the  objects  of  my  satire; 
though,  where  I  find  the  former,  I  never  spare 
the  latter,  lie  the  rank  and  character  in  life 
what  it  will." 

My  master  had  by  this  time  counted  out 
his  money  (among  which  I  was),  which  the 
author  took  without  telling  over,  and  then 
went  to  his  company,  leaving  the  bookseller 
scarcely  more  pleased  with  his  bargain  than 
mortified  at  the  cavalier  treatment  he  had  met 
in  making  it. 


ISAAC    BICKERSTAFF. 


Born  1735  — Dikd  1800. 


[Isaac  BickerstaflF,  a  name  well  known  in 
dramatic  literature,  was  born  of  a  respectable 
family  in  the  year  1735.  In  1746  he  became 
page  to  Loi'd  Chesterfield  when  that  nobleman 
was  appointed  Lord-lieutenant  of  Ireland,  and 
later  on  in  life  he  was  an  officer  of  marines. 
From  this  post  he  was  dismissed  for  some 
dishonourable  action,  when  he  left  his  country 
and  died  abroad,  the  exact  time  and  place 
being  both  uncertain,  although  the  date  of  his 
death  is  generally  said  to  be  1800. 

Of  comedies,  farces,  operas,  &c.,  Bickerstatt' 
produced  in  his  time  some  twenty-two,  a  large 
proportion  of  which  were  highly  successful. 
His  three  good  old-fashioned  English  comic 
operas,  Love  in  a  Village,  The  Maid  of  the 
Mill,  and  Lionel  ayid  Clarissa,  are  declared  by 
a  clever  yet  sober  critic  to  be  "  of  the  first 
class,  which  will  continue  to  be  popular  as 
long  as  the  language  in  which  they  are  written 
lasts."  Love  in  a  Village,  which  appeared  in 
1762,  and  was  played  frequently  during  its 
first  season,  liad  a  success  nearly  as  great 
as  The  Beggar's  Opera  of  an  earlier  period. 
Its  reputation  is  still  high,  and  it  is  yet  re- 
tained as  a  stock  piece  on  the  English  stage, 
although  it  is  said  to  be  at  best  only  a  clever 


compilation  of  scenes  and  incidents  from  a 
number  of  other  plays.  But  Bickerstafi"  saw 
no  harm  in  this,  any  more  than  our  modern 
adapters  do  in  conveying  from  the  French;  and 
if  he  stole,  it  must  be  said  he  dressed  his 
kidnapped  children  in  better  clothes  than 
they  possessed  before. 

Of  Bickerstaft's  farces  thi-ee  at  least,  2^he 
Padlock,  The  Sultan,  and  The  Spoiled  Child, 
held  the  stage  for  a  long  time,  and  we  our- 
selves remember  seeing  The  Padlock  acted  at 
a  country  theatre.  Though  constantly  pro- 
ducing light  musical  pieces,  and  excelling  in 
them,  BickerstafF  only  once  attemjited  ora- 
torio. This  piece  was  called  Judith,  set  to 
music  by  Dr.  Arne,  and  performed  first  at 
the  Lock  Hospital  Chapel  in  February,  1764, 
and  afterwards  revived  at  the  church  of  Strat- 
ford-on-Avon  on  the  occasion  of  Garrick's 
foolish  "  Jubilee  in  honour  of  the  memory 
of  Shakspere,"  in  1769.  In  1765  The  Maid 
of  the  Mill  was  produced  at  Covent  Garden, 
and  ran  the  unusual  period  of  thii'ty-five 
nights.  It  is  chiefly  founded  on  Richardson's 
novel  Pamela,  but  "divested  of  the  coarse 
scenes  and  indecency  by  which  that  moral  and 
model   lesson,  as  it  has  been  called,  is  dis- 


246 


ISAAC   BICKEESTAFF. 


figured."  His  pieces  The  Plain  Dealer  and 
The  Hypocrite,  both  alterations  of  other  plays, 
the  latter  of  Colley  Cibber's  Nonjuror,  are 
well  known,  and  still  keep  the  stage.  One 
of  Bickerstatt's  best  comedies,  ^Tis  Well  it's 
no  Worse,  is  founded  on  a  Spanish  original. 
Indeed,  of  all  his  works,  only  Lionel  and  Clar- 
issa can  be  said  to  be  thoi'oughly  and  com- 
pletely original.  Notwithstanding  this,  how- 
ever, critics  still  continue  to  look  on  him  as 
one  of  the  most  successful  writers  for  the  stage, 
an  employment  which  he  followed  for  over 
twenty  years.] 


A  NOBLE   LORD. 

(from  "the  maid  of  the  mill.") 

[Patty  has  been  educated  and  brought  up 
by  Lord  Aimworth's  mother,  who  was  very 
fond  of  her,  and  his  lordship  is  equally  so.] 

Lord  Aimworth  a7id  Patty. 

Lord  Aim.  I  came  hither,  Patty,  in  con- 
sequence of  our  conversation  this  morning,  to 
render  your  change  of  state  as  agreeable  and 
happy  as  I  could ;  but  your  father  tells  me 
you  have  fallen  out  with  the  farmer.  Has 
anything  happened  since  I  saw  you  last  to 
alter  your  good  opinion  of  him  ? 

Patty.  No,  my  lord,  I  am  in  the  same 
opinion  now  with  regard  to  the  farmer  that  I 
always  was. 

Lord  Aim.  I  thought,  Patty,  you  loved  him. 
You  told  me — 

Patty.  My  lord  ! 

Lord  A  im.  Well,  no  matter ;  it  seems  I  have 
been  mistaken  in  that  particular.  Possibly 
your  affections  are  engaged  elsewhere.  Let 
me  but  know  the  man  that  can  make  you 
happy  and  I  swear — 

Patty.  Indeed,  my  lord,  you  take  too  much 
trouble  upon  my  account. 

Lord  Aim.  Perhaps,  Patty,  you  love  some- 
Ijody  so  much  beneath  you  you  are  ashamed 
to  own  it,  but  your  esteem  confers  a  value 
wherever  it  is  placed.  I  was  too  harsh  with 
you  this  morning ;  our  inclinations  are  not  in 
our  own  power,  they  master  the  wisest  of  us. 

Patty.  Pray,  pray,  my  lord,  talk  not  to  me 
in  this  style.  Consider  me  as  one  destined  by 
birth  and  fortune  to  the  meanest  condition 
and  offices,  wlio  has  unha])pily  been  apt  to 
ini])ibe  sentiments  contrai-y  to  them  !  Let  me 
conquer  a  heart  where  pride  and  vanity  have 
usurped  an  improper  rule ;  and  learn  to  know 


myself,  of  whom  I  have  been  too  long  igno- 
rant. 

Lord  Ai77i.  Perhaps,  Patty,  you  love  some 
one  so  much  above  you  you  are  afraid  to  own 
it.  If  so,  be  his  rank  what  it  will  he  is  to  be 
envied:  for  the  love  of  a  woman  of  virtue, 
beauty,  and  sentiment  does  honour  to  a  mon- 
arch. What  means  that  downcast  look,  those 
tears,  those  blushes]  Dare  you  not  confide  in 
me  I  Do  you  think,  Patty,  you  have  a  friend 
in  the  world  would  sympathize  with  you  more 
sincerely  than  I? 

Patty.  What  shaU  I  answer  ?  No,  my  lord, 
you  have  ever  treated  me  with  kindness,  a 
generosity  of  which  none  but  minds  like  yours 
are  capable.  You  have  been  my  instructor, 
my  adviser,  my  protector;  but,  my  lord,  you 
have  been  too  good;  when  our  superiors  forget 
the  distance  between  us,  we  are  sometimes  led 
to  forget  it  too.  Had  you  been  less  conde- 
scending perhaps  I  had  been  happier. 

Lord  Aim.  And  have  I,  Patty,  have  I  made 
you  unhappy  ?  I,  who  would  sacrifice  my  own 
felicity  to  secure  yours  ? 

Patty.  I  beg,  my  lord,  you  will  suffer  me  to 
be  gone ;  only  believe  me  sensible  of  all  your 
favours,  though  unworthy  of  the  smallest. 

Lord  A  im.  How  unworthy  ]  You  merit  every- 
thing ;  my  respect,  my  esteem,  my  friendship, 
and  my  love !  Yes,  I  repeat,  I  avow  it :  your 
beauty,  your  modesty,  your  understanding, 
have  made  a  conquest  of  my  heart ;  but  what 
a  world  do  we  live  in !  that  while  I  own  this; 
while  I  own  a  passion  for  you,  founded  on  the 
justest,  the  noblest  basis,  I  must  at  the  same 
time  confess  the  fear  of  that  world,  its  taunts, 
its  reproaches. 

Patty.  Ah  !  sir,  think  bettei-  of  the  creature 
you  have  raised  than  to  suppose  I  ever  enter- 
tained a  hope  tending  to  your  dishonour : 
would  that  be  a  return  for  the  favours  I  have 
received  I  Would  that  be  a  grateful  reverence 
for  the  memory  of  her?  Pity  and  pardon  the 
disturbance  of  a  mind  that  fears  to  inquire  too 
minutely  into  its  own  sensations.  I  am  un- 
fortunate, my  loi'd,  but  not  criminal. 

Lord  Aim.  Patty,  we  are  both  unfortunate; 
for  my  own  part,  I  know  not  what  to  say  to 
you,  or  what  to  propose  to  myself. 

Patty.  Then,  my  lord,  'tis  mine  to  act  as  I 
ought.  Yet  while  I  am  honoured  with  a  place 
in  your  esteem,  imagine  me  not  insensible  of 
so  high  a  distinction,  or  capable  of  lightly 
turning  my  tlioughts  towards  another. 

Loi'd  Aim.  How  cruel  is  my  situation  !  I 
am  here,  Patty,  to  command  you  to  marry  the 
man  wlio  has  given  you  so  much  uneasiness. 


A    NOBLE    LORD 


ISAAC   BICKERSTAFF. 


247 


Patty.  My  lord,  I  am  conviuceil  it  is  for 
your  credit  and  my  safety  it  should  be  so.  I 
hope  I  have  not  so  ill  profited  by  the  lessons 
of  your  noble  mother  but  I  shall  be  able  to 
do  my  duty  whenever  I  am  called  to  it ;  this 
will  be  my  first  support,  time  and  reflection 
will  complete  the  work. 

[The  farmer  refuses  to  marry  Patty  because 
of  hearing  some  scandal  whispered  a.s  to  her 
intimacy  with  Lord  Aimworth.  Fairfield, 
Patty's  father,  takes  her  up  to  the  nobleman's 
house  to  complain  of  the  slight,  much  against 
her  will.] 

Lord  Aim.  {On  hearing  it  says.)  I  am  sony, 
Patty,  you  have  had  this  mortification. 

Fatty.  I  am  sorry,  my  lord,  you  have  been 
troubled  about  it,  but  really  it  was  against  my 
consent. 

Fair.  AVell,  come,  my  child,  we  will  not  take 
up  his  honour's  time  any  longer;  let  us  be 
going  towards  home.  Heaven  prosper  your 
lordship;  the  prayers  of  me  and  my  family 
shall  always  attend  you. 

Lord  Aim.  Miller,  come  back.    Patty,  stay. 

Fair.  Has  your  lordship  anything  further 
to  command  us? 

Lord  Aivi.  Why,  yes,  Master  Fairfield,  I 
have  a  word  or  two  still  to  say  to  you;  in 
short,  though  you  are  satisfied  in  this  affair, 
I  am  not ;  and  you  seem  to  forget  the  promise 
I  made  you,  that  since  I  had  been  the  means 
of  losing  yov;r  daughter  one  husband,  I  would 
find  her  another. 

Fair.  Your  honour  is  to  do  as  you  please. 

Lord  Aim.  What  say  you,  Patty,  will  you 
accept  of  a  husband  of  my  choosing? 

Patty.  My  lord,  I  have  no  determinations ; 
you  are  the  best  judge  how  I  ought  to  act ; 
whatever  you  command,  I  shall  obey. 

Lord  Aim.  Then,  Patty,  there  is  but  one 
person  I  can  offer  you,  and  I  wish  for  your 
sake  he  was  more  deserving.     Take  me. 

Patty.  Sir! 

Lord  Ai7n.  From  this  moment  our  interests 
are  one,  as  our  heaits,  and  no  earthly  power 
shall  ever  divide  us. 

Fair.  "O  the  gracious!"  Patty — my  lord 
— did  T  hear  right !  You  sir,  you  marry  a 
child  of  mine  ? 

Lord  Aim.  Yes,  my  honest  old  man,  in  me 
you  behold  the  husband  designed  for  your 
daughter ;  and  I  am  happy  that  by  standing 
in  the  place  of  fortune,  who  has  alone  been 
wanting  to  her,  I  shall  be  able  to  set  her  merit 
in  a  light  where  its  lustre  will  be  rendered 
conspicuous. 

Fair.   But  good  noble  sir,  pray  consider. 


don't  go  to  put  upon  a  silly  old  man,  my 
daughter  is  unworthy.  Patty,  child,  why  don't 
you  speak  ? 

Patty.  What  can  I  say,  father  !  what  answer 
to  such  unlooked  for,  such  unmerited,  such 
unbounded  generosity  ! — Yes,  sir,  as  my  father 
says,  consider  your  noble  friends,  your  rela- 
tions ;  it  must  not,  cannot  be. 

Lord  Aim.  It  must,  and  .shall.  Friends! 
relations  I  from  henceforth  I  have  none  tliat 
will  not  acknowledge  you;  and  I  am  sure, 
when  they  become  acquainted  with  your  per- 
fections, those  whose  suffrage  I  most  esteem 
will  rather  admire  the  justice  of  my  choice, 
than  wonder  at  its  singularity. 


HOIST   WITH   HIS   OWN  PETAKD. 

(FROM    "UONEL   AND    CLARISSA.") 

[Harmau,  who  is  a  younger  son  of  a  good 
family  and  poor,  makes  the  acquaintance  of 
Colonel  Oldboy's  daughter  Diana  in  London, 
and  they  fall  in  love.  Harman  manages  to 
get  an  introduction  from  a  friend,  and  comes 
down  to  the  Colonel's  country-house.  He  tells 
him  all  about  his  being  in  love,  and  his  dread 
of  the  father  refusing  his  consent  because  of 
his  poverty,  but  of  course  conceals  the  name 
of  the  lady.  On  being  pressed  to  name  her 
he  says  she  does  not  live  far  distant.  The 
Colonel,  who  delights  in  a  bit  of  intrigue,  takes 
the  matter  in  hand  and  urges  Harman  on  as 
foUows.l 

Harman  and  Diana  in  conference.  Diana 
leaves  by  one  door  as  Colonel  Oldbot 
enters  by  anothei: 

Col.  Heyday  !  What's  the  meaning  of  this? 
Who  is  it  went  out  of  the  room  there  ?  Have 
you  and  my  daughter  been  in  conference,  Mi\ 
Harman  ? 

Har.  Yes,  faith,  sir;  she  has  been  taking 
me  to  task  here  very  severely  with  regard  to 
this  affair.  And  she  has  said  so  much  against 
it,  and  put  it  into  such  a  strange  light — 

Col.  A  busy,  impertinent  baggage  !  Egad  I 
I  wish  I  had  catched  her  meddling,  and  after 
I  ordered  her  not !  But  you  have  sent  to  the 
girl,  and  you  say  she  is  ready  to  go  with  you. 
You  must  not  disappoint  her  now. 

Har.  No,  no,  Colonel ;  I  always  have  polite- 
ness enough  to  hear  a  lady's  reasons ;  but  con- 
stancy enough  to  keep  a  will  of  my  own. 

Col.  Very  well ;  now  let  me  ask  you.  Don't 


248 


ISAAC  BICKERSTAFF. 


you  think  it  would  be  proper,  upou  this  oc- 
casion, to  have  a  letter  ready  writ  for  the 
father,  to  let  him  know  who  has  got  his  daugh- 
ter, and  so  forth? 

Har.  Certainly,  sir;  and  I'll  write  it  di- 
rectly. 

Col.  You  write  it !    You  be  d d  !    I  won't 

trust  you  with  it !     I  tell  you,  Harman,  you'll 
commit   some   cursed   blunder   if  you   don't 
leave  the  management  of  this  whole  affair  to 
me.     I  have  writ  the  letter  for  you  myself. 
Har.  Have  you,  sir? 

Col.  Ay !  Here,  read  it.  I  think  it's  the 
thing.  However,  you  are  welcome  to  make 
any  alteration. 

Har.  (Reads.)  "  Sir,  I  have  loved  your 
daughter  a  great  while  secretly.  She  assures 
me  there  is  no  hojies  of  your  consenting  to  our 
marriage ;  I,  therefore,  take  her  without  it.  I 
am  a  gentleman  who  will  use  her  well.  And, 
when  you  consider  the  matter,  I  dare  swear 
you  will  be  willing  to  give  her  a  fortune ;  if 
not,  you  shall  find  I  dare  behave  myself  like 
a  man.  A  word  to  the  wise.  You  must  expect 
to  hear  from  me  in  another  style." 

Col.  Now,  sir,  I  will  tell  you  what  you  must 
do  with  this  letter.  As  soon  as  you  have  got 
off  with  the  girl,  sir,  send  your  servant  back 
to  leave  it  at  the  house,  with  orders  to  have  it 
delivered  to  the  old  gentleman. 

Har.  Upon  my  honour,  I  will.  Colonel. 
Col.  But,  upon  my  honour,  I  don't  believe 
you'll  get  the  girl.  Come,  Harman;  I'll  bet 
you  a  buck  and  six  dozen  of  Burgundy  that 
you  won't  have  spirit  enough  to  bring  this 
affair  to  a  crisis  ! 

Har.  And  I  say,  done  first,  Colonel. 
Col.  Then  look  into  the  court  there,  sir :  a 
chaise,  with  four  of  the  prettiest  bay  geldings 
in  England,  with  two  boys  in  scarlet  and  silver 
jackets,  that  will  whisk  you  along. 

Har.  Boys,  Colonel !  Little  cupids  to  trans- 
port me  to  the  summit  of  my  desires  ! 

Col.  Ay ;  but,  for  all  that,  it  mayn't  be  amiss 
for  me  to  talk  to  them  a  little  out  of  the 
window  for  you.  Dick,  come  hither.  You 
are  to  go  with  this  gentleman,  and  do  what- 
ever he  bids  you;  and  take  into  the  chaise 
whoever  he  pleases ;  and  drive  like  devils ;  do 
you  hear?     But  be  kind  to  the  dumb  beasts. 

Har.  Leave  that  to  me,  sir.  And  so,  my 
dear  Colonel —  [Bows  and  exit. 

[The  result  of  the  Colonel's  advice  is  as  fol- 
lows. Mr.  Jessamy  is  the  Colonel's  son,  who 
has  Ijeen  reared  by  an  uncle,  and  whose  name 
he  has  adopteil.] 


Enter  a  Servant. 

Col.  How  now,  you  scoundrel,  what  do  you 
want? 

Ser.  A  letter,  sir. 
Col.  A  letter — from  whom,  sirrah? 
Ser.  The  gentleman's  servant,  an't  please 
your  honour,  that  left  this  just  now  in  the 
post-chaise;  the  gentleman  my  young  lady  went 
away  with. 

Col.  Your  young  lady,  sirrah  !  Your  young 
lady  went  away  with  no  gentleman,  you 
dog.  "What  gentleman?  What  young  lady, 
sirrah  ? 

Mr.  Jes.  There  is  some  mystery  in  this. 
With  your  leave,  sir,  I'll  open  the  letter:  I 
believe  it  contains  no  secrets. 

Col.  What  are  you  going  to  do,  you  jacka- 
napes? You  sha'n't  open  a  letter  of  mine. 
Di — Diana.  Somebody  call  my  daughter  to 
me  there.  {Reads.)  "  To  John  Oldboy,  Esq. 
Sir,  I  have  loved  your  daughter  a  great  while 
secretly — consenting  to  our  marriage — " 
Mr.  Jes.  So,  so. 

Col.  You  villain !  you  dog !  what  is  it  you 
have  brought  me  here? 

Ser.  Please  your  honour,  if  you'll  have 
patience  I'll  tell  your  honour.  As  I  told  your 
honour  before,  the  gentleman's  servant  that 
went  off  just  now  in  the  post-chaise  came  to 
the  gate,  and  left  it  after  his  master  was  gone. 
I  saw  my  young  lady  go  into  the  chaise  with 
the  gentleman. 

Mr.  Jes.  {Takes  up  the  letter  the  Colonel  has 
thrown  down.)  Why,  this  is  your  own  hand. 

Col.  Call  all  the  servants  in  the  house,  let 
horses  be  saddled  directly ;  every  one  take  a 
different  road. 

Ser.  Why,  your  honour,  Dick  said  it  was  by 
your  own  orders. 

Col.  My  orders !  you  rascal  ?  I  thought  he 
was  going  to  run  away  with  another  gentle- 
man's daughter.     Di — Diana  Oldboy. 

\_Exit  Servant. 
Mr.  Jes.  Don't  waste  your  lungs  to  no  pur- 
pose, sir ;  your  daughter  is  half  a  dozen  miles 
off  by  this  time. 

Col.  Sirrah,  you  have  been  bribed  to  further 
the  scheme  of  a  pickpocket  here. 

Mr.  Jes.  Besides,  the  matter  is  entirely  of 
your  own  contriving,  as  well  as  the  letter  and 
spirit  of  this  elegant  epistle. 

Col.  You  are  a  coxcomb,  and  I'll  disinherit 
you  ;  the  letter  is  none  of  my  writing ;  it  was 
writ  by  the  devil,  and  the  devil  contrived  it. 
Diana,  Margaret,  my  lady  Mary,  William, 
John—  [Exit. 


ISAAC   BICKEESTAFF. 


249 


Mr.  Jes.  I  am  very  glad  of  this;  i)rocligiously 
glad  of  it,  upon  my  houonr.  He  !  he  !  he !  It 
will  be  a  jest  this  hundretl  yeai-s.  {Bell  rings 
violently,  on  both  sides.)  What's  tiie  matter 
now?  Oh!  her  ladyship  has  lieard  of  it,  and 
is  at  her  bell ;  and  the  Colonel  answers  her. 
A  pretty  duet ;  but  a  little  too  much  upon  the 
forte,  methinks.  It  would  be  a  diverting  thing, 
now,  to  stand  unseen  at  the  old  gentleman's 
elbow.  {Exit. 

Enter  Colonel  Oldboy,  ivith  one  boot,  a  great- 
coat on  his  arm,  <&c.,  folloxoed  by  several 
Servants. 

Col.  She's  gone,  by  the  Lord  !  fairly  stole 
away,  with  that  poaching,  coney  -  catching 
rascal!     However,  I  won't  follow   her;    no, 

d e ;  take  my  whip,  and  my  cap,  and  my 

coat,  and  order  the  gi-oom  to  unsaddle  the 
horses;  I  won't  foUow  her  the  length  of  a 
spur-leather.  Come  here,  you  sir,  and  pull  off 
my  boot  {lohistles)  ;  she  has  made  a  fool  of  me 
once,  she  sha'u't  do  it  a  second  time.  Not  but 
I'll  be  revenged  too,  for  I'll  never  give  her 
sixpence ;  the  disappointment  will  put  the 
scoundrel  out  of  temper,  and  he'll  thrash  her 
a  dozen  times  a  day.  The  thought  pleases  me; 
I  hope  he'll  do  it.  What  do  you  stand  gaping 
and  staring  at,  you  impudent  dogs  ?  Are  you 
laughing  at  me?  I'll  teach  you  to  be  meiTy 
at  my  expense—  [Exit  in  a  rage. 

[Ultimately  the  Colonel  makes  the  best  of 
it,  and  forgives  his  daughter  and  Harman.] 


ME.    MAWWORM.i 

Old  Lady  Lambert  and  Dr.  Cantwell 
in  conference. 

Enter  Mawworm. 

Old  Lady  L.  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Maw- 
worm ? 

Maw.  Thank  your  ladyship's  axing,  I'm  but 
deadly  poorish,  indeed ;  the  world  and  I  can't 
agree — I  have  got  the  books,  doctor,  and  Mrs. 
Grunt  bid  me  give  her  sarvice  to  you,  and 
thanks  you  for  the  eighteenpence. 

Dr.  C.  Hush  !  friend  Mawworm  !  not  a  word 
more ;  you  know  I  hate  to  have  my  little 
charities  blazed  about :  a  poor  widow,  madam, 
to  whom  I  sent  my  mite. 

Old  Lady  L.  Give  her  this.  {Offers  a  purse 
to  Mawworm.) 

'  This  is  fi'oni  The  Hypocrite. 


Dr.  C.  I'll  take  care  it  shall  be  given  to  her. 
{Takes  the  purse.) 

Old  Lady  L.  But  what  is  the  matter  with 
you,  Mr.  Mawworm  / 

Mau\  I  don't  know  wliat's  the  matter  with 
me ;  I'm  breaking  my  heart ;  I  think  it's  a  sin 
to  keep  a  shojj. 

Old  Lady  L.  Why,  if  you  think  it's  a  sin, 
indeed ;  pray,  what's  your  business  ] 

Maw.  We  deals  in  grocery,  tea,  small-beer, 
charcoal,  butter,  Ijrick-dust,  and  the  like. 

Old  Lady  L.  Well ;  you  must  consult  with 
yom-  friendly  director  here. 

Maiv.  I  wants  to  go  a-preaching. 

Old  Lady  L.  Do  you  ? 

Mav).  I'm  almost  sure  I  have  had  a  call. 

Old  Lady  L.  Ay  ! 

Maw.  I  have  made  several  sermons  already. 
I  does  them  extrumpery,  because  I  can't  write; 
and  now  the  devils  in  our  alley  says  as  how 
my  head's  turned. 

Old  Lady  L.  Ay,  devils  indeed ;  but  don't 
you  mind  them. 

Maxv.  No,  I  don't;  I  rebukes  them,  and 
preaches  to  them,  whether  they  will  or  not. 
We  lets  our  house  in  lodgings  to  single  men, 
and  sometimes  I  gets  them  together,  with  one 
or  two  of  the  neighbours,  and  makes  them  all 
cry. 

Old  Lady  L.  Did  you  ever  preach  in  public  ? 

Maiv.  I  got  up  on  Kennington  Common  the 
last  review  day;  but  the  boys  threw  brick- 
bracks  at  me,  and  pinned  crackers  to  my  tail ; 
and  I  have  been  afraid  to  mount,  your  lady- 
ship, ever  since. 

Old  Lady  L.  Do  you  hear  this,  Doctor? 
throw  brickbats  at  him,  and  pin  crackers  to 
his  tail !     Can  these  things  be  stood  by  ] 

Maw.  I  told  them  so ;  says  I,  I  does  nothing 
clandecently ;  I  stands  here  cont;igious  to  his 
majesty's  guards,  and  I  charges  you  upon  your 
apparels  not  to  mislist  me. 

Old  Lady  L.  And  it  had  no  etlect  ? 

Maw.  No  more  than  if  I  spoke  to  so  many 
postesses ;  but  if  he  advises  me  to  go  a-preach- 
ing, and  quit  my  shop,  I'll  make  an  exci-essance 
farther  into  the  country. 

Old  Ijady  L.  An  excursion  you  would  say. 

Maio.  I  am  but  a  sheep,  but  my  bleating 
shall  be  heard  afar  off,  and  that  sheep  shall 
become  a  shejiherd ;  nay,  if  it  be  only,  as  it 
were,  a  shepherd's  dog,  to  bark  the  stray  lambs 
into  the  fold. 

Old  Lady  L.  He  wants  methoil.  Doctor. 

Dr.  C.  Yes,  madam,  but  there  is  matter;  and 
I  despise  not  the  ignorant. 

Maw.  He's  a  saint. 


250 


ISAAC   BICKEESTAFF. 


Dr.  C.  Oh ! 

Old  Lady  L.  Oh  ! 

Maw.  If  ever  there  was  a  saint,  he's  oue. 
'Till  I  went  after  him  1  was  little  better  than 
the  devil ;  my  conscience  was  tanned  with  sin 
like  a  piece  of  neat's  leather,  and  liad  no  more 
feeling  than  the  sole  of  my  shoe;  always  a 
roving  after  fantastical  delights ;  I  used  to  go 
every  Sunday  evening  to  the  Three  Hats  at 
Islington;  it's  a  public-house;  mayhap  your 
ladyship  may  know  it.  I  was  a  great  lover  of 
skittles  too,  but  now  I  can't  bear  them. 

Old  Lady  L.  What  a  blessed  reformation  ! 

Maw.  I  believe,  Doctor,  you  never  know'd 
as  how  I  was  instigated  one  of  the  stewards  of 
the  Reforming  Society.  I  convicted  a  man  of 
five  oaths,  as  last  Thursday  was  a  se'nnight, 
at  the  Pewter  Platter  in  the  Borough;  and 
another  of  three,  while  he  was  playing  trap- 
ball  in  St.  George's  Fields;  I  bought  this  waist- 
coat out  of  my  share  of  the  money. 

Old  Lady  L.  But  how  do  you  mind  your 
business? 

Maw.  We  have  lost  almost  all  our  customers; 
because  I  keeps  extorting  them  whenever  they 
come  into  the  shop. 

Old  Lady  L.  And  how  do  you  live  ? 

Maxo.  Better  than  ever  we  did :  while  we 
were  worldly-minded,  my  wife  and  I  (for  I 
am  married  to  as  likely  a  woman  as  you  shall 
see  in  a  thousand)  could  hardly  make  things 
do  at  all ;  but  since  this  good  man  has  brought 
us  into  the  road  of  the  righteous,  we  have 
always  plenty  of  everything;  and  my  wife 
goes  as  well  dressed  as  a  gentlewoman.  We 
have  had  a  child  too. 

Old  Lady  L.  Merciful ! 

Maw.  And  yet,  if  you  would  hear  how  the 
neighbours  reviles  my  wife ;  saying  as  how 
she  sets  no  store  by  me,  because  we  have 
words  now  and  then  :  but,  as  I  says,  if  such 
was  the  case,  would  she  ever  have  cut  me 
down  that  there  time  as  I  was  melancholy,  and 
she  found  me  hanging  behind  the  door?  I 
don't  believe  there's  a  wife  in  the  parish  would 
have  (lone  so  by  her  husband. 

Dr.  C.  I  believe  'tis  near  dinner-time ;  and 
Sir  John  will  require  my  attendance. 

Maio.  Oh !  I  am  troublesome ;  nay,  I  only 
come  to  you,  Doctor,  with  a  message  from  Mrs. 
Grunt.  I  wish  your  ladyship  heartily  and 
heartily  farewell :  Doctor,  a  good  day  to  you. 

Old  Lady  L.  Mr.  Mawworm,  call  on  me 
some  time  this  afternoon ;  I  want  to  have  a 
little  private  discourse  with  you;  and  pray, 
my  service  to  your  spouse. 


Maw.  I  will,  madam  ;  you  are  a  malefactor 
to  all  goodness  ;  I'll  wait  upon  your  ladyship; 
I  will  indeed.  {Going,  rehirns.)  Oh  !  Doctoi', 
that's  true;  Susy  desired  me  to  give  her  kind 
love  and  res])ects  to  you.  [^Exit. 


TWO   SONGS. 


(from    "THOMAS    AND    SALLY,    OR  THE  SAILOR*! 
RKTURN.") 

My  time  how  happy  once  and  gay  ! 

Oh  !  blithe  I  was  as  blithe  could  be ; 
But  now  I'm  sad,  ah,  well-a-day ! 

For  my  true  love  is  gone  to  sea. 

The  lads  pursue,  I  strive  to  shun ; 

Though  all  their  arts  are  lost  on  me ; 
For  I  can  never  love  but  one, 

And  he,  ala-s !  has  gone  to  sea. 

Tliev  bid  me  to  the  wake,  the  fair, 
To  dances  on  the  ueighb'ring  lea: 

But  how  can  I  in  pleasure  share, 
While  my  true  love  is  out  at  sea? 

The  flowers  droop  till  light's  return, 
The  pigeon  mourns  its  absent  she ; 

So  will  I  droop,  so  will  I  mourn, 

Till  mv  true  love  comes  back  from  sea. 


How  happy  is  the  sailor's  life, 

From  coast  to  coast  to  roam ; 
In  every  port  he  finds  a  wife, 

In  every  land  a  home. 
He  loves  to  range,  he's  nowhere  strange; 

He  ne'er  will  turn  his  back 
To  friend  or  foe;  no,  masters,  no; 

My  life  for  honest  Jack. 

If  saucy  foes  dare  make  a  noise, 

And  to  the  sword  appeal ; 
We  out,  and  quickly  larn  'em,  boys, 

AVith  whom  they  have  to  deal. 
We  know  no  craft  but  'fore  and  aft. 

Lay  on  our  strokes  amain; 
Then,  if  they're  stout,  for  'tother  bout, 

We  drub  'em  o'er  again. 

Or  fair  or  foul,  let  Fortune  blow, 

Our  hearts  are  never  dull ; 
The  pocket  that  to-day  ebbs  low, 

To-morrow  shall  be  full ; 
For  if  so  be,  we  want,  d'ye  see? 

.\  pluck  of  this  here  stuff; 
In  Indi — a,  and  Americ — a, 

We're  sure  to  find  euough. 


THOMAS   DERMODY. 


251 


Then  bless  the  king,  and  bless  the  state, 

And  bless  our  captains  all ; 
And  ne'er  may  chance  unfortunate 

The  British  fleet  befall. 
But  prosp'rous  gales,  where'er  she  sails, 

And  ever  may  she  ride. 
Of  sea  and  shore,  till  time's  no  more, 

The  terror  and  the  pride. 


WHAT  ARE  OUTWARD  FORMS? 

What  are  outward  forms  and  shows, 
To  an  honest  heart  compared? 

Oft  the  rustic,  wanting  those, 
Has  the  nobler  portion  shared. 

Oft  we  see  the  homely  flower. 
Bearing,  at  the  hedge's  side. 


Virtues  of  more  sovereign  power 
Than  the  garden's  gayest  pride. 


HOPE. 


Hope  !  thou  nurse  of  young  desire, 

Fairy  promiser  of  joy, 
Painted  vapour,  glow-worm  fire, 

Temp'rate  sweet,  that  ne'er  can  cloy. 

Hope  !  thou  earnest  of  delight, 
Softest  soother  of  the  mind, 

Balmy  cordial,  prospect  bright. 
Surest  friend  the  wretched  find. 

Kind  deceiver,  flatter  still. 
Deal  out  pleasures  unpo.ssest, 

With  thy  dreams  my  fancy  fill, 
And  in  wishes  make  me  blest. 


THOMAS     DERMODY. 


Born  1775  — Died  1802 


[Thomas  Dermody,  who  in  some  respects 
may  be  called  the  Chatterton  of  Ireland,  was 
the  son  of  a  schoolmaster  of  considerable  at- 
tainments, and  was  born  at  Ennis  on  the 
17th  of  January,  1775.  Pope  wrote  vei-ses  at 
twelve ;  Cowley  received  the  applause  of  his 
friends  at  eleven;  but  young  Dermody  proved 
himself  even  more  precocious,  for  at  the  age 
of  ten  he  had  accumulated  more  literary  work 
than  he  cared  to  let  the  public  see.  At  this 
early  age,  also,  the  boy  had  acquired  a  love 
for  the  bottle,  an  evil  propensity  which  he  is 
said  to  have  inherited  from  his  father,  and 
which  wrecked  all  his  after  life.  This  vice  he 
seemed  to  abandon  for  a  time  in  1785,  when  a 
beloved  brother  died,  and  he  himself  deter- 
mined to  remain  no  longer  at  home.  Whilst 
on  a  visit  with  his  father  at  a  friend's  house, 
the  young  lad,  without  the  least  hint  to  any 
one  and  with  only  two  shillings  in  his  pocket, 
started  otf  for  the  Irish  metropolis.  Here 
Dermody  found  himself  in  a  new  world,  and 
spent  his  time  in  stroUing  about  the  book- 
stalls and  booksellere'  shops.  One  day,  while 
reaching  out  his  hand  for  a  book,  he  was  ob- 
served by  the  owner,  who,  fearful  of  a  theft 
rather  than  a  bargain,  hastened  out.  He  found 
Dermody  poring  over  a  Greek  author,  and 
after  questioning  him  asked  him  down  iuto 
his  cellar.      The  man  soon  saw  that  he  had 


discovered  a  scholar,  and  invited  him  to  dinner. 
They  dined  together  with  mutual  satisfaction, 
and  it  occuiTed  to  the  host  that  this  learned 
youth  might  teach  his  son  Latin,  a  {proposal 
which  Dermody  readily  accepted.  But  he  was 
not  here  long  before  his  evil  propensity  began 
to  show  itself.  The  good-natured  bookseller 
became  anxious  about  him,  and,  feeling  there 
was  no  hope  of  reformation  in  his  own  house, 
managed  to  procure  for  him  another  situa- 
tion. In  this  new  place  he  remained  only  a 
short  time,  but  in  it  he  had  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  several  collegians,  notably  Dr. 
Houlton,  into  whose  house  he  was  received. 
Here  he  remained  for  ten  weeks. 

It  is  impossible,  and  perhaps  not  desimble, 
to  enter  into  all  the  incidents  and  details  of 
Dermody's  short  and  wretched  life.  He  was 
constantly  making  new  friends  and  again 
losing  them.  No  sooner  had  he  begun  in  some 
new  jiosition  to  prove  his  ability,  than  he  also 
began  to  show  bis  old  evil  habits.  After 
having  exhausted  the  round  of  his  friends  in 
domestic  life,  he  managed  to  make  the  ac- 
qiiaintance  of  some  players,  among  whom  was 
Mr.  Owenson,  a  gentleman  distinguished  by 
his  humanity,  who  at  once  set  about  planning 
how  to  get  for  him  an  introduction  to  the 
college.  Through  him  he  was  introduced 
to  Dr.  Young,  who  undertook  the  charge  of 


252 


THOMAS   DEEMODY. 


his  studies.  Soon,  however,  the  devil  seemed 
again  to  get  the  upper  hand,  and  he  began  to 
skulk  his  studies  and  to  deceive  his  friends. 
At  last  the  truth  came  out,  and  Dermody  was 
once  more  left  iu  destitution.  Not  for  long, 
however,  for  with  rare  good  luck  he  was  taken 
in  hand  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Austin,  who  took  him 
into  his  own  house,  introduced  him  to  his 
friends,  and  by  their  advice  opened  a  sub- 
scription for  his  future  education  and  sup- 
port. But  at  last  he  was  discovered  in  some 
misconduct  at  Mr.  Austin's  for  the  third  or 
fourth  time,  and  the  patience  of  that  gentle- 
man having  been  exhausted,  he  withdrew  his 
favour  from  the  youthful  jioet. 

Again  Mr.  Owenson  stood  his  friend,  and 
introduced  him  to  a  Mr.  Atkinson,  who  for  a 
long  time  befriended  him.  A  little  later,  on 
the  recommendation  of  Mr.  Atkinson,  he  was 
noticed  and  adopted  by  that  "glory  of  her 
country"  the  Dowager  Countess  of  Moira. 
At  her  desire  and  expense  he  was  furnished 
with  all  necessaries,  and  placed  under  the  care 
of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Boyd  of  KiUeigh.  Here  he 
remained  two  years,  during  v/hich  time  he 
greatly  improved  himself  in  the  ancient  lan- 
guages, and  acquired  a  competent  knowledge 
of  French  and  Italian.  The  countess  saw  with 
delight  the  progress  being  made  by  her  pro- 
tege, but  folly  was  so  ingrained  in  his  nature 
that  he  soon  began  to  show  himself  as  of  old; 
and  at  length  Lady  Moira  in  a  letter  informed 
him  that  she  could  no  longer  be  responsible 
for  his  expenses,  and  presented  him  with  one 
last  graceful  donation. 

Seeing  that  KiUeigh  was  no  longer  a  place 
for  him,  Dermody  at  once  started  off  for 
Dublin.  Here  he  began  again  his  old  course 
of  life,  which  was  now  less  pardonable,  seeing 
that  he  was  older  and  had  added  considerably 
to  his  education.  On  all  sides  he  applied  for 
contributions  from  his  friends,  and  received 
at  irregular  intervals  sums  sufficient  to  have 
started  him  in  life.  Among  others  he  applied 
to  Lady  Moira,  and  in  spite  of  his  previous 
misconduct  he  was  received  into  partial  favour 
and  presented  with  a  sum  of  money. 

But  he  sank  lower  and  lower,  until  he  was 
again  cast  off  by  her  ladyship  and  his  other 
friends.  Turning  to  politics  as  a  richer  or 
fresher  field,  he  ])roduced  in  1793  a  pamphlet 
entitled  Tlie  Rights  of  Justice,  or  Rational 
Liberty,  to  which  he  added  a  well-written 
poem  entitled  "The  Reform."  Politics,  how- 
ever, he  discovered  to  be  of  little  or  no  use, 
and  at  last  he  took  to  that  most  ignoble  of  all 
callings  the  begging-letter  writer.    His  posi- 


tion soon  became  unbearable,  and  he  was  on 
the  point  of  starvation  when  he  was  rescued 
by  Mr.  Wolfe,  then  attorney -general  and 
afterwards  Lord  Chief-justice  Kilwarden. 
Through  this  gentleman  he  received  many 
introductions,  and  he  actually  engaged  apart- 
ments for  him  in  the  college,  offered  to  pay 
all  his  expenses  there,  and  allow  him  in  addi- 
tion £30  a  year.  Seldom  is  there  a  brighter 
chance  for  a  youth  of  talent;  but  Dermody 
had  come  to  love  the  gutter  better  than  the 
drawing-room,  and  refused  the  oifer.  After 
this  money  began  to  come  in  slower  and 
slower,  and  he  determined  to  retire  to  a  soli- 
tude and  resign  himself  to  despair;  but  he 
changed  his  mind  and  proposed  to  try  Loudon. 
Before  getting  away  from  Dublin,  however, 
he  enlisted  in  the  army,  and  was  bought  off 
through  the  kindness  of  a  friend.  He  again 
enlisted,  and  it  was  decided  to  leave  him  sub- 
ject to  the  discipline  of  the  ranks  for  some 
months.  No  plan  could  be  wiser,  for  this  dis- 
cipline had  such  an  elTect  upon  him  that  he 
seemed  to  be  quite  reformed.  In  a  short  time 
he  was  advanced  to  the  rank  of  corporal,  then 
of  sergeant,  and  iu  1794  he  embarked  with  the 
regiment  for  England,  being  then  nineteen 
years  of  age,  yet  having  more  experience  of 
human  life  and  his  own  frailties  than  thousands 
at  threescore  and  ten.  In  the  short  intervals  of 
repose  from  his  duties  he  did  not  now  turn  to 
the  dram-shop,  but  found  leisure  to  write  "The 
Retrospect,"  a  poem  of  no  mean  order.  On 
arriving  in  England  he  came  under  the  notice 
of  the  Earl  of  Moira,  who,  having  become 
commander  of  the  army  destined  for  the  coast 
of  France,  appointed  Dermody  to  a  second 
lieutenancy  in  the  waggon  corps.  During  the 
expedition  he  acted  fairly  well,  and  on  its 
return  he  was  put  on  the  half-pay  list. 

He  now  determined  to  go  to  London,  re- 
nounce his  former  follies,  and  begin  a  new 
life.  But  his  resolutions  were  short-lived ; 
his  debaucheries  were  renewed,  and  at  last,  in 
despair,  he  took  shelter  in  a  miserable  garret 
rented  by  a  cobbler  in  a  wretched  part  of  the 
town.  In  January,  1800,  he  made  known  his 
condition  to  his  old  friend  J.  Grant  Ray- 
mond, who  afterwards  wrote  his  biography. 
This  gentleman  extended  some  help  to  him, 
and  impressed  upon  him  that  he  must  com- 
mence life  as  an  author,  and  out  of  wliat  he 
had  already  written  produce  a  book  at  once. 
A  volume  was  accordingly  got  together,  for 
which  lie  received  a  liberal  sum.  It  was  dedi- 
cated to  his  former  friend  Lady  Moira,  and 
contains  among  other  poems  "  The  Pursuit  of 


THOMAS   DERMODY 


253 


Patronage,"  in  which  he  describes  in  pathetic 
and  masterly  style  the  distresses  of  those  elder 
and  illustrious  sous  of  poesy  whose  writings 
have  ennobled  English  literature.  The  money 
received  for  this  work  enabled  him  to  live  at 
ease  for  some  time;  but  all  his  experiences  liad 
not  given  him  prudence,  and  he  was  constantly 
falling  backwards  into  the  slough  of  despond. 
It  is  indeed  sickening  to  follow  the  details  of 
a  life  like  his ;  friend  after  friend  contributes 
to  his  necessities  without  avail.  Through  the 
influence  of  Mr.  Pye  he  received  several  sums 
of  money  from  the  Royal  Literary  Fund,  but 
his  distress  seemed  to  increase  rather  than 
lessen,  and  his  health  to  grow  worse  and  worse. 
By  this  time  he  had  acquired  fame  as  a  poet ; 
to  this  he  now  added  the  character  of  a  power- 
ful satirist  by  his  "  Battle  of  the  Bards,"  an 
hei'oic  poem  in  two  cantos,  the  subject  being 
a  whimsical  conflict  in  a  booksellei-'s  sho]) 
between  Mr.  Gilfard,  author  of  the  Baviad, 
and  the  celebrated  Peter  Pindar. 

His  health  was  now  so  broken  down  that  a 
change  of  air  was  absolutely  necessary  to  keep 
him  alive,  and  to  attain  this  another  volume 
of  poems  which  he  had  been  preparing  was 
issued.  The  principal  pieces  in  this  collection 
are  "The  Extravaganza,"  which  the  author 
says  "is  perhaps  the  most  original  and  fanci- 
ful poem  I  ever  had  sufficient  powers  to  com- 
pose;" "The  Pleasures  of  Poesy,"  which  con- 
tains many  beautiful  passages;  and  "The 
Enthusiast,"  from  which  our  extracts  "Dan- 
ger" and  "Jealousy"  ai-e  taken.  But  the  profit 
he  derived  from  this  volume  was  small,  and 
day  by  day  matters  grew  woi-se.  At  last  he 
found  his  way  to  a  hovel  in  Wells  Road,  Syden- 
ham, from  whence  a  letter  reached  his  friend 
Mr.  Raymond,  who  visited  him,  and  found  him 
in  a  most  wretched  condition.  Immediately 
the  comforts  which  he  required  were  ordered, 
and  after  some  delay  lodgings  of  a  better  kind 
procured.  Into  these  he  was  to  be  removed 
the  following  day ;  but  the  last  effoi'ts  of  his 
kind  friend  were  unavailing,  for  on  that  same 
evening  he  died,  at  the  age  of  twenty-seven 
years  and  six  months,  a  monument  of  genius 
misapplied  and  golden  opportunities  thrown 
away.  He  was  buried  in  Lewisham  church- 
yard, where  a  monument  to  his  memory  may 
yet  be  found,  bearing  a  lengthy  inscription. 

The  literary  character  of  this  exti'aordinary 
youth  is  tlius  drawn  by  Mr.  Raymond:  "His 
poetical  powers  may  be  said  to  have  been 
intuitive,  for  some  of  his  best  pieces  were 
composed  before  he  had  reached  twelve  years 
of  age.     His  language  was  nervous,  polished. 


and  fluent.  His  wonderful  classical  knowledge, 
added  to  a  memory  uncommonly  powerful  and 
comprehensive,  furnislH;d  him  with  allusions 
that  were  appropriate,  combinati<jns  that  were 
pleasing,  and  sentiments  that  were  dignified. 
He  had  an  incjuisitive  mind,  but  could  never 
resist  the  temptations  which  ofl"ered  to  seduce 
him  from  his  studies.  No  one  ever  wrote  with 
gi'eater  facility;  his  mind  was  stored  with  .such 
a  fund  of  observation,  such  an  accumulation 
of  knowledge  gathered  from  science  and  fi'om 
nature,  that  his  thoughts,  when  wanted,  rushed 
upon  him  like  a  torrent,  and  he  could  compo.se 
with  the  rapidity  with  which  another  could 
transcribe.  There  is  scarcely  a  style  of  com- 
position in  which  he  did  not  in  some  degi-ee 
excel.  The  descriptive,  the  ludicrous,  the 
didactic,  the  sublime, — each,  when  occasion 
required,  he  treated  with  skill,  with  acute 
remark,  imposing  humour,  profound  reflec- 
tion, and  lofty  magnificence."] 


WHEN   I   SAT   BY   MY   FAIR. 

AVhen  I  sat  by  my  fair,  and  she  tremblingly  tuld 

The  soft  wishes  and  doubts  of  her  heart, 
How  quickly  old  Time,  then,  delightfully  rolled, 

For  love  lent  the  plume  from  his  dart! 
From  the  blush  of  her  cheek,   how  my  bosom 

caught  flame. 
And  her  eyes  spoke  a  fondness  her  lips  would  not 
name. 

But  her  cheek,  that  once  rivalled  the  summer's 
full  rose, 

Now  as  April's  sad  primrose  is  pale; 
In  her  eye,  now,  no  bright  sensibility  glows. 

Though  1  breathe  fortli  truth's  rapturous  tale ; 
And  thy  moments,  old  Time,  that  on  downy  feet  fled, 
Ah  me!  are  now  fettered,  and  weighty  as  lead. 

Yet  surely,  though  much  of  her  passion  is  past, 

Some  sparks  of  affection  remain ; 
And  the  clouds,  that  her  meek-beaming  brow  have 
o'ercast, 

May  be  melted  in  pity's  soft  rain. 
If  not,  my  wrung  breast  to  distraction  I  bare; 
For  distraction  itself  is  less  hard  than  despair. 


EVENING   STAR. 

Soft  star,  approaching  slowly  on  the  sky 

With  solemn  march,  if  e'er  beneath  thy  beam, 

Darkling,  I  heaved  the  deep  impassioned  sigh. 
Or  bade  the  silent  tear  of  feeling  stream  ; 


254 


THOMAS   DEEMODY. 


If  e'er,  with  fancy's  magic  voice,  I  called 

Ten  thousand  sprites  to  tend  thy  sapphire  car, 
If  e'er,  by  rushing  darkness  unappalled, 

I  followed  thy  receding  light  afar, 
Be  gracious  now  :  to  this  love-laboured  bower. 

With  thy  bright  clue  conduct  my  promised  fair; 
Full  on  her  face  thy  yellow  radiance  pour, 

And  gild  the  flowing  tissue  of  her  hair; 
So  shall  the  nightingale  her  note  prolong, 
Wild  warbling  to  thine  ear  our  bridal  song ! 


THE    SENSITIVE    LINNET. 

WRITTEN  BEFORE  DERMODY  WAS  TEN  YEARS   OF  AGE. 

My  fond  social  linnet,  to  thee 

What  dear  winning  charms  did  belong! 

On  my  hand  thou  wouldst  carol  with  glee, 
Un  my  bosom  attend  to  my  song. 

Sweet  bird,  in  return  for  my  strain. 

Thou  warbled'st  thine  own  o'er  again. 

Love,  jealous  a  bird  should  thus  share 
My  affections,  shot  speedy  his  dart : 

To  my  swain  now  I  sang  every  air ; 
The  linnet  soon  took  it  to  heart. 

Sweet  bird,  in  how  plaintive  a  strain 

Thou  warbled'st  thine  own  jealous  pain ! 

But  faithless  my  lover  I  found, 
,\nd  in  vain  to  forget  him  I  tried : 

The  linnet  perceived  my  heart's  wound. 
He  sickened,  he  drooped,  and  he  died. 

Sweet  bird,  why  to  death  yield  the  strain? 

Thy  song  would  have  lightened  my  pain. 


JEALOUSY. 

Ah,  who  is  she,  of  dark  unsettled  brow. 

That  bleeding  drags  an  angel-shape  behind, 
And  quaffs  the  living  gore !     I  know  her  now : 
'Tis  Jealousy ;  that  monster  of  the  mind, 
Inwhomare  thousand  contraries  combined. — 
Now  moping,  melancholy,  o'er  the  wild ; 
Now  fretful,  rash,  unreasoning,  unconfin'd  : 
In  Constancy's  best  blood  her  hands  defil'd, 
And  strangling  in  its  birth  her  own  devoted  child. 


LINES   TO   THE   COUNTESS   OF   MOIRA. 

Ah  !  deeds  of  tenderness  to  earth  unknown. 
Felt  by  her  keener  sense  and  heaven  alone ; 
'Tis  you  that  raise  the  mind  with  joy  sincere, 
And  pour  to  Gcd  rich  incense  in  a  tear ; 
At  pity's  shrine  with  diffidence  impart. 
That  noblest  hecatomb,  a  feeling  heart; 
And  in  one  sigh  the  mockeries  outdo. 
Of  these  that,  saint-like,  mourn  to  sin  anew; 
That  treat  the  human  ties  with  ranc'rous  sjjort. 
And  quit  the  temple  to  adorn  a  court. 


Deem'st  thou  ingrate  or  dead  the  shepherd  boy, 

Erewhile  who  sung  thee  to  the  list'ning  plain? 
Still  pausing  on  thy  deeds  with  pensive  joy. 

Ingratitude  nor  death  has  hush'd  the  strain. 
Still  drest  in  all  her  captivating  hues, 

Smiling  in  tears,  will  languishingly  .steal 
O'er  my  fantastic  dream  the  well-loved  muse, 

Like  morn  dim-blushing  through  its  dewy  veil. 
Her  wild  flowers,  bound  into  a  simple  wreath, 

Meekly  she  proffers  to  thy  partial  .sight. 
Oh,  softly  on  their  tender  foliage  breathe ! 

Oh,  save  them  from  the  critic's  cruel  blight ! 
Nurse  the  unfolding  blooms  with  care  benign. 
And  'mid  them  weave  one  laurel  leaf  of  thine. 


CONTENTMENT   IN   ADVERSITY 

In  a  cold  empty  garret  contented  I  sit. 

With  no  spark  to  warm  me  but  sparks  of  old  wit : 

On  a  crazy  black  stool  doleful  ditties  I  sing. 

And,  poor  as  a  beggar,  am  blest  as  a  king. 

Then  why  should  I  envy  the  great  folks  and  proud. 

Since  God  has  given  me  what  he  took  from  the 

crowd  ? 
My  pen  is  my  sceptre;  my  night-cap  my  cro^vn, 
All  circled  with  laurels  so  comely  and  brown ; 
Nor  am  I  so  powerless  as  people  may  think. 
For,  lo !  like  all  kings,  I  can  spill  floods — of  ink. 
Fight  armies  of  mice,  tear  huge  spiders  at  will, 
And  murder  whole  fleets  with  the  point  of  a  quill. 
Wa<j  the  world  as  it  list,  I  am  still  a  queer  luay, 
And  my  noddle  is  full,  though  right  hollow  my  bag. 
No  money  I  hoard  up,  for  money  is  dirt, 
And  of  that  I've  enough — very  much  to  my  hurt. 
Yet  should  shillings  hop  in  at  some  prosperous 

time, 
They  jingle  so  pretty  I  keep  them  to  chime. 
Some  sages  may  prate  of  their  saws  out  of  season, 
And  reason  on  matters  without  rhyme  or  reason, 
But  I'm  no  such  pagan  or  infidel  grown 
To  Providence  thwart  by  odd  schemes  of  my  own ; 
And  surely,  grave  signors,  'twould  seem  very  odd 
For  the  lord  of  a  garret  to  cross  his  Lord  God. 
No,  no  ;  he  is  just :  not  like  poor  earthly  elves 
That  scrape  up  from  others  to  cover  themselves, 
Who  treat  the  bare  drudget  of  genius  with  laughter. 
And  labour  so  here  sure  they  think  no  hereafter; — 
For  certainly  clay-cumber'd  logs,  ever  counting, 
As  Dominic  has  it,  "  were  ne'er  made  for  mount- 
ing". 
"Here's  a  health,  then,  to  Fate,  and  to  Fortune 
her  daughter 
(Miss-fortune,  I  mean),  though  I'm  sorry 'tis  water. 
Yet  water  itself,  sirs,  may  toast  such  a  madam; 
For  'twas  wine,  beer,  and  rum  in  the  fair  days  of 

Adam; 
So  why  may  not  I,  then,  imagine  it  claret? 
For  his  taate  was  as  fine  as  his  son's  in  a  garret. " 


ROBERT  JEPHSON. 


255 


ON  SONGS. 


Oh  !  tender  songs ! 
Heart-licavings  of  tlie  breast,  tiiat  longs 

Its  best-beloved  to  meet; 
You  tell  of  love's  delightful  hours, 
Of  meetings  amid  jasmine  bowers, 
And  vows,  like  perfume  of  young  flowers, 

As  fleeting — but  more  sweet. 

Oh  !  glorious  songs ! 
That  rouse  the  brave  'gainst  tyrant  wrongs, 

Kesounding  near  and  far ; 
Mingled  with  trumpet  and  with  drum, 
Your  spirit-stirring  summons  come, 
And  urge  the  hero  from  his  home, 

And  arm  him  for  the  war. 


Oh  !  mournful  songs ! 
Wlien  sorrow's  ho.st,  in  gloomy  throngs 

Assail  the  widowed  heart ; 
You  sing,  in  softly  soothing  strain, 
The  praise  of  those  whom  death  liath  ta'en, 
And  tell  that  we  shall  meet  again. 

And  meet  no  more  to  part. 

Oh  !  lovely  songs ! 
Breathings  of  heaven  ;  to  you  belongs 

The  empire  of  the  heart. 
Enthroned  in  memory,  still  reign 
O'er  minds  of  prince,  and  peer,  and  swain, 
With  gentle  power,  that,  knows  not  wane, 

Till  thought  and  life  depart. 


ROBERT    JEPHSON. 


Born  1736  — Died  1803. 


[Robert  Jeplison  was  born  in  1736,  and 
entered  the  army  while  young.  He  soon 
attained  to  the  i-ank  of  captain ;  and  in  1763, 
on  the  occasion  of  the  reduction  of  the  regi- 
ment, he  retired  on  half-j^ay.  Before  this  time 
he  had  turned  his  attention  to  literature,  and 
made  the  acquaintance  of  William  Gerard 
Hamilton,  through  whose  influence  he  was 
introduced  to  Lord  Townshend,  by  whom  he 
was  soon  after  made  master  of  the  horse. 
Charmed  by  his  wit  and  satirical  powers,  his 
lordship  also  procured  him  a  seat  in  the  Irish 
House  of  Commons.  Here  he  soon  distin- 
guished himself,  and,  being  grateful  for  the 
favours  he  had  received,  he  earnestly  defended 
the  acts  of  the  government.  On  Lord  Town- 
shend's  departure  he  also  stood  in  the  breach 
in  defence  of  that  nobleman,  when  he  was 
attacked  openly  and  rather  ungenerously  in 
February,  1774.  In  the  debate  on  a  bill  to 
repeal  or  relax  some  of  the  cruel  laws  against 
Roman  Catholics  he  "took  a  prominent  part, 
and  made  a  long  and  eloquent  speech  in  their 
favour,  quitting  on  that  occasion  his  usual 
satirical  turn  which  had  obtained  him  the 
name  of  'Mortal  Momus  !'" 

Lord  Hai'court,  who  succeeded  Lord  Town- 
shend, either  not  caring  for  wit,  or  not  liking 
to  encourage  the  favourites  of  his  jiredecessor, 
acted  coldly  towards  Jephson,  who,  at  the 
general  election  in  1776,  was  allowed  to  lose 
his  seat.  After  a  time,  however,  it  was  seen 
how  useful  Jephson's  talents  woidd  be,  and  a 
seat  was  found  for  him  at  Old  Leighlin,  in 
county  Carlow.     Probably  feeling  that  he  was 


merely  being  made  a  tool  of,  Jephson  now 
devoted  himself  more  and  more  to  literature, 
and  rarely  spoke  in  the  house,  and  his  parlia- 
mentary career  may  be  said  to  have  practi- 
cally closed  soon  after  this  time. 

His  first  play,  The  Duke  of  Braganza,  was 
produced  at  Drury  Lane  in  1771,  and  at  once 
proved  him  to  be  a  dramatist  of  no  mean 
power.  Horace  Walpole  held  a  high  opinion 
of  it.  It  was  soon  followed  by  The  Law  of 
Lombardy,  also  a  successful  play;  and  The 
Count  of  Narbonne,  which  was  his  greatest 
success  of  any.  Jejjhson's  other  dramatic 
works  were  The  Campaign;  Julia,  or  the  Ital- 
ian Lover;  Two  Strings  to  your  Bow;  and  The 
Consfiracy.  In  1794  he  also  produced  a  poeti- 
cal work  called  Roman  Portraits,  which  was 
highly  spoken  of  at  the  time,  and  in  the  same 
year  a  capital  satire  on  the  French  Revolution 
entitled  The  Confessions  of  James  Baptiste 
Couteau.  He  also,  in  conjunction  with  Mr. 
Courtenay,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Boroughs,  and  others, 
{)roduced  a  series  of  essays  under  the  title  of 
The  Batchelor,  which,  says  a  writer  in  Bio- 
graphia  Dramatica,  "succeeded  in  jjutting 
down  and  tui-ning  into  ridicule  the  enemies  to 
Lord  Townshend's  government,  and  enriched 
the  world  with  a  collection  which,  for  general 
wit  and  humour,  has  rarely  been  equalled, 
perhaps  never  excelled."  The  same  writer  de- 
clares Jephson  to  have  been  "a  man  of  taste, 
judgment,  and  good  sense,"  which  we  can 
readily  believe,  and  which  his  dramas  abun- 
ilantly  show.  Indeed  these  dramas  contain 
writing  in  some  places  scarcely  inferior  to  the 


256 


EOBEET  JEPHSON. 


very  best  things  of  the  kind  in  the  English 
language. 

Jephson  died  at  Blackrock,  near  Dublin, 
on  the  31st  of  May,  1803.] 


A  MIGHTY   FIGHTER. 

(from  "two  strings  to  your  bow.") 

[Clara's  brother  hiis  been  betrothed  when  a 
child  to  Leonora.  He  dies,  and  Leonora's 
father  is  about  to  bestow  her  upon  Ferdinand, 
whom  she  loves,  when  Clara  appears  and  per- 
sonates her  brother,  for  an  adventure  of  her 
own.     She  confides  her  disguise  to  Leonora.] 

Enter  Clara  disguised  as  a  man  and  Leonora. 

Cla.  I  have  told  you  my  story  ;  I  rely  upon 
your  honour,  you  will  not  discover  me. 

Leo.  Don't  fear  me.  You  have  relieved  me 
from  such  anxiety  by  your  friendly  confidence, 
that  I  would  rather  die  than  betray  you;  nay, 
•what  is  still  more,  I  would  rather  lose  my 
lover. 

Cla.  Of  that  there  can  be  no  danger:  let 
matters  proceed  to  the  utmost,  the  discovery 
of  my  sex. 

Leo.  But  may  I  not  tell  Ferdinand  ? 

Cla.  No — pray  indulge  me ;  a  secret  burns 
in  a  single  breast;  it  is  just  possible  that  two 
may  keep  it,  but  if  'tis  known  to  a  third,  I 
might  as  well  tell  it  to  the  crier,  and  have  it 
proclaimed  at  the  great  door  of  every  church 
in  Granada. 

Leo.  Well,  you  shall  be  obeyed;  dejjend  upon 
it,  I  will  be  faithful  to  you.  Men  give  them- 
selves strange  airs  about  our  sex ;  we  are  so 
unaccustomed,  they  Bay,  to  be  trusted,  that 
our  vanity  of  a  confidence  shows  we  are  un- 
worthy of  it. 

Cla.  No  matter  what  they  say;  I  think  half 
of  their  superiority  lies  in  their  beards  and 
their  doublets. 

Don  Pedro.  (  Within.)  Leonora ! 

Leo.  My  father  calls  me;  farewell,  dear 
Clara !  should  you  want  my  assistance,  you 
know  you  may  command  me.  [JExit. 

Enter  Ferdinand. 

Fer.  So,  sir,  I  have  found  you.  Do  you 
know  me,  sir  1 

Cla.  I  have  so  many  acnuaintances  whom  I 
should  wish  not  to  know,  that  I  don't  like  to 
answer  that  question  suddenly. 


Fer.  Do  you  take  me  for  a  sharper,  young- 
ster ? 

Cla.  Sharpers  wear  good  clothes.     [Crosses. 

Fer.  And  puppies  wear  long  swords.  What 
means  that  jiiece  of  steel  dangling  there  by 
thy  effeminate  sidel  Answer,  stripling,  canst 
thou  fight  for  a  lady? 

Cla.  (Aside.)  He's  a  terrible  fellow!  I 
quake  every  inch  of  me;  but  I  must  put  a 
good  face  upon  it — I'll  try  what  speaking  big 
will  do.  (Advancing  to  him.)  Why,  yes,  Cap- 
tain Terrible !  do  you  suppose  I  am  to  be 
daunted  by  your  blustering  l — Bless  me  !  if  a 
long  stride,  a  fierce  blow,  and  a  loud  voice, 
were  mortal,  which  of  us  should  live  to  twenty? 
— I'd  have  you  to  know,  dani'me — 

Fer.  Draw  your  sword,  draw  your  sword, 
thou  amphibious  thing  !  if  you  have  the  spirit 
of  a  man.  [Braics. 

Cla.  Oh,  lord !  what  will  become  of  me  ? 
hold,  hold,  for  heaven's  sake !  What,  will 
nothing  but  fighting  satisfy  you  ?  I'll  do  any- 
thing in  reason.     Don't  be  so  hasty. 

Fer.  Oh!  thou  egregious  dastard!  you  won't 
fight,  then? 

Cla.  (Aside.)  No,  by  no  means.  I'll  settle 
this  matter  in  another  way.  What  will  be- 
come of  me? 

Fer.  Thy  hand  shakes  so,  thou  wilt  not  be 
able  to  sign  a  paper,  though  it  were  ready  for 
thee ;  therefore,  observe  what  I  say  to  you. 

Cla.  Yes,  sir. 

Fe7:  And  if  thou  darest  to  disobey,  or  mur- 
mur at  the  smallest  article — 

Cla.  Yes,  sir. 

Fer.  First,  then,  owni  thou  art  a  coward. 

Cla.  Yes,  sir. 

Fer.  Unworthy  of  Leonora. 

Cla.  Yes,  sir. 

Fer.  Return  instantly  to  Salamanca. 

Cla.  (Seeing  Leonora.)  Ha,  Leonora!— 
Not  till  I  have  chastised  you  for  your  in- 
solence. (Draivs.) 

Enter  Leonora,  who  runs  between  them. 

Leo.  Heavens!  what  do  I  see  ?  Fighting! 
For  shame,  Ferdinand  !  Draw  your  sword  on 
a  stranger  ? 

Fer.  Don't  hold  me  !  (To  Leo.) 

Cla.  Hold  him  fast,  madam ;  you  can't  do 
him  a  greater  kindness. 

Fer.  ('Struggling.)     Dear  Leonora ! 

Cla.  Thou  miserable  coward  !  thou  egregi- 
ous dastard  !  thou  poltroon  !  By  what  name 
shall  I  call  thee? 

Fer.  Do  you  hear  him,  Leonora? 

Cla.  Hold  him  fast,  madam;  I  am  quite  in 


EGBERT  JEPHSON. 


257 


a  fever  with  my  rage  at  him.  Madam,  that 
fellow  never  sliould  pretend  to  you.  He  was 
just  ready  to  sign  a  paper  I  had  prepared  for 
liim,  renouncing  all  right  and  title  to  you. 

Fer.  {To  Leonora.)  By  heaven,  you  injure 
me  ! 

Cla.  He  had  just  consented  to  leave  this 
city,  and  was  actually  upon  his  knees  to  me 
for  mercy^ 

Fer.  Can  I  bear  this  ? 

Leo.  Patience,  dear  Ferdinand  ! 

Cla.  When,  seeing  you  coming,  he  plucked 
up  a  little  spirit,  because  he  knew  you  would 
prevent  us;  and,  drawing  out  liis  unwilling 
sword,  which  hung  dangling  like  a  dead 
weight  by  his  side  there,  he  began  to  flourish 
it  about,  just  as  I  do  now,  madam.  Hold  him 
fast,  madam — ha,  ha! — -Don  Valiant,  I  shall 
catch  you,  sir,  when  there  is  noljody  by  to 
protect  you— au  revoir !  Hold  him  fast — ha, 
ha,  hai  \_Exit  Clara. 

Fer.  Nothing  shall  restrain  me— loose  me, 
or  by  my  wrongs,  I  shall  think  you  are  con- 
federate with  him. 

Leo.  Dear  Ferdinand,  rely  upon  it  you  are 
mistaken. 

Fer.  'Sdeath  !  weathercocks,  wind,  and  fea- 
thers are  nothing.  Woman,  woman  is  the 
true  type  of  mutability — and  to  be  false  to  me, 
for  such  a  thing  as  that — I  could  cut  such  a 
man  out  of  a  sugared  cake.  I  believe  a  con- 
fectioner made  him. 

Leo.  Have  you  done  yet  ? 

Fer.  No,  nor  ever  shall  till  this  mystery  is 
cleared  up  to  me. 

Leo.  That  I  cannot  do. 

Fer.  Then,  adieu — you  shall  see  me  no  more, 
but  you  shall  hear  of  me.  I'll  tind  your  Nai-- 
cissus,  that  precious  flower-pot.  I'll  make  him 
an  example.  All  the  wrongs  I  have  suff'ered 
from  you  shall  be  revenged  on  him.        [Exit. 

Leo.  {Following  him.)  Ferdinand,  dear 
Ferdinand !  [Exit. 

[Leonora  kept  her  friend's  secret,  and  after 
Clara,  in  the  disguise  of  her  brother,  had  suc- 
ceeded in  her  plot  she  discovered  all,  and 
Ferdinand  and  Leonora  were  made  happy.] 


MOST   SEEMING   FALSE. 

(FROM     "THK     LAW     OF     LOMBARDY.") 

[Bireno  wishes  to  wed  the  Princess  Sophia, 
SO  as  to  reign  jointly  with  her.     He  finds  she 
prefers  Paladore,  and,  to  insure  her  destiniction 
Vol.  I. 


and  his  own  succession  to  the  kingdom,  he 
instigates  her  waiting  woman  Alinda,  who  Is 
his  mistress,  to  personate  the  princess.  By 
this  means  he  sends  away  her  lover  Paladore, 
and  i)uts  tiie  princess  in  tlie  power  of  tlie  law.] 

Scene,  a  Garden. — Hinaldo,  a  servant  of 
Palauokk. 

Rina.    He  mu.st  pa.s,s  thi.s  way :    through  the 

postern-gate 
That  leads  here  only,  with  distemper'd  pace 
I  saw  him  hasten.     Since  tlie  evening  banquet 
His  wild  demeanour  has  put  on  more  change 
Than  yonder  fickle  planet  in  her  orb. 
Just   now   he    seiz'd    his   sword,    look'd   at    and 

pois'd  it. 
Then  girt  it  round  him,  while  his  bloodshot  eye, 
And  heaving  bosom,  spoke  the  big  conception 
Of  some  dire  purpose.    There  is  mischief  towards; 
I  may  perhaps  prevent  it:  these  tall  shrubs 
Will  hide  me  from  his  view.     Soft,  soft,  'tis  he. 

[lietiretf. 
Enter  Paladore. 

Pal.   Why  do  I  shake  thus?     If,  indeed,  she'd 
false, 
I  should  rejoice  to  have  the  spell  unbound 
That  chains  me  to  delusion.     He  swears  deeply: 
But  bad  men's  oaths  are  breath,  and  their  ba.so 

lies 
With  holiest  adjurations  stronger  voucli'd 
Than  native  truth,  which,  center'd  in  itself, 
Rests  in  its  simpleness;  then  this  bold  carriage 
Urging  the  proof  by  test  infallible. 
The  witness  of  my  sigiit.     Why,  these  combin'd 
(Spite  of  my  steady  seeming),  viper-tooth'd, 
Gnaw  at  my  constancy,  and  inward  spread 
Suggestions,  whicli  unmaster'd,  soon  would  change 
The  ruddy  heart  to  blackness.     But,  oh,  shame! 
These  doubts  are  slander's  liegers.     Sweetest  in- 
nocence ! 
That  now,  perhaps,  lapp'd  in  Elysian  sleep, 
Seest  heaven  in  vision,  let  not  these  base  sounds 
Creep  on  thy  slumber,  lest  they  startle  rest, 
And  change  thy  trance  to  horror.     Lo!  he  comes; 
Yon   light   that   glimmers  'twixt   the   quivering 

leaves 
(Like  a  small  star)  directs  his  footsteps  hither. 

Enter  Bireno,  loith  a  lantern. 

Bir.  Your  pardon,   sir ;  I   fear  I  ve  made  you 
wait. 
But  here,  beneath  the  window  of  his  mistress, 
A  lover  favour'd,  and  assur'd  like  you, 
Must  have  a  thousand  pleasant  fantasies 
To  entertain  his  musing. 

Pal.   Sir,  my  ftincy 

Has  various  meditations;  no  one  thought 

Mix'd  with  disloyalty  of  her  whose  honour 

Your  boldness  would  attaint. 

17 


258 


EGBERT  JEPHSON. 


Bii\   Then  you  hold  firm, 
I  am  a  boaster? 

Pal.   'Tis  my  present  creed. 

Bh:   'Twere  kind,  perliaps,  to  leave  you  in  that 
error. 
The  wretch  who  dreams  of  bliss,  while  his  sleep 

lasts, 
Is  happy  as  in  waking  certainty; 
But  if  he's  rous'd,  and  rous'd  to  misery, 
He  sure  must  curse  the  hand  that  shook  his  cur- 
tain. 

Pal.   I  have  no  time  for  maxims,  and  your  mirth 
Is  most  unseasonable.     Thus  far  to  endure. 
Perhaps  is  too  much  tameness.     To  the  purpose. 

Bb:  With  all  convenient  speed.     You're  not  to 
learn. 
We  have  a  law  peculiar  to  this  realm, 
That  subjects  to  a  mortal  penalty 
All  women  nobly  born  (be  their  estate 
Single  or  husbanded)  who,  to  the  .shame 
Of  chastity,  o'erleap  its  thorny  bounds. 
To  wanton  in  the  flowery  path  of  pleasure. 
Kor  is  the  proper  issue  of  the  king 
By  royalty  exempted. 

Pal.   So  I  have  heard. 
But  wherefore  urge  you  this? 

Bir.   Not  without  reason. 
I  draw  my  sword  in  peace.     Now  place  your  lips 
Here  on  this  sacred  cross.     By  this  deep  oath. 
Most  binding  to  our  order,  you  must  swear, 
Whate'er  you  see,  or  whatsoe'er  your  wrath 
Prom  what  you  see,  that  never  shall  your  tongue 
Eeveal  it  to  the  danger  of  the  princess. 

Pal.    A  most  superfluous  bond !      But  on ;    I 
swear. 

Bir.   Hold  yet  a  little.     Now,  sir,  once  again 
Let  this  be  touch'd.     Your  enmity  to  me. 
If  by  the  process  it  should  be  provok'd. 
Must  in  your  breast  be  smother'd,  not  break  out 
In  tilting  at  my  life,  nor  your  gage  thrown 
Por  any  after  quarrel.     The  cause  weigh'd, 
I  might  expect  your  love:  but  'tis  the  stuff 
And  proper  quality  of  hoodwink'd  rage. 
To  wrest  offence  from  kindness. 

Pal.  Should  your  proof 
Keep  pace  with  your  assurance,  scorn,  not  rage, 
Will  here  be  paramount,  and  my  sword  sleep. 
From  my  indifference  to  a  worthless  toy, 
A'alued  but  in  my  untried  ignorance. 

Bir.  So  you  determine  wisely.    I  must  bind  you 
To  one  condition  more.      If  I  make  palpable 
Her  preference  in  my  favour,  you  must  turn 
Your  back  on  Lombardy,  and  never  more 
Seek  her  encounter. 

Pal.   By  a  soldier's  faith. 
Should  it,  be  so,  I  would  not  breathe  your  air 
A  moment  longer,  for  the  sov'rcignty 
Of  all  the  soil  wasli'd  by  your  wandering  Po. 
Bir.  Summon  your  patience  now,  for  sure  you'll 
need  it. 


Pal.   You  have  tried  it  to  the  last.     Dally  no 
more; 
I  shiver  in  expectance.     Come,  your  proofs. 

Bir.  Well,  you  will  have  them.    Know  you  first 
this  writing?  (Gives  a  pajxr. ) 

Pal.   It  is  the  character  of  fair  Sophia. 

Bir.  I  think  so,  and  as  such  receiv'd  it  from  her; 
Convey'd  with  such  sweet  action  to  my  hand, 
As  wak'd  the  nimble  spirit  of  my  blood. 
Whispering  how  kind  were  the  contents  within. 
This  light  will  aid  the  moon,   though  now  she 

shines 
In  her  full  splendour.     At  your  leisure  read  it. 

Pal.    Kind  words,  indeed !     I   fear,  I  fear  too 
common.  (Heading. ) 

Bir.     (Aside.)    It  works  as  I  could  wish.     How 
his  cheek  whitens! 
His  fiery  eye  darts  through  each  tender  word 
As  it  would  burn  the  paper. 

Pal.    "  Ever  constant " —  (Readinij.) 

Let  me  look  once  again.     Is  my  sight  false? 
Oh,  would  it  were !     Fain  would  I  cast  the  blame, 
To  .save  her  crime,  on  my  imperfect  sense. 
But  did  she  give  you  this? 

Bir.   Look  to  the  address. 

Pal.  Oh,  darkness  on  my  eyes!     I've  seen  too 
much. 
There's  not  a  letter,  but,  like  necromancy. 
Withers  my  corporal  functions.     Shame  confound 
her! 

Bir.  As  you  before  were  tardy  of  belief. 
You  now  are  rash.     Behold  these  little  shadows. 
These  you  have  seen  before. 

(Producing  two  pictures. ) 

Pal.   What's  this,  what's  this? 
My  picture,  as  I  live;  I  gave  the  false  one, 
And  hers  she  promis'd  me.     Oh,  woman's  faith! 
I  wa.s  your  champion  once,  deceitful  sex; 
Thought  your  fair  minds — But,  hold!  I  may  be 

rash; 
This  letter,  and  these  pictures,  might  be  yours 
By  the  king's  power,  compelling  her  reluctant 
To  write  and  send  them;  therefore,  let  me  see 
All  you  have  promis'd.     You  expect  her  summons 
At  yon  miranda— 

Bir.  Yes,  the  time  draws  near! 
She  ever  is  most  punctual.     This  small  light 
Our  wonted  signal.     Stand  without  its  ray; 
Por  should  .she  spy  more  than  myself  beneath, 
Fearing  discovery,  she'll  retire  again 
Into  her  chamber.     When  her  beauteous  form 
Breaks  like  the  moon,  as  fair,  though  not  so  cold, 
Prom  yonder  window — 

Pal.   Ha!  by  hell,  it  opens! 

Bir.    Stand   you   apart   a  moment.      While   I 
climb. 
Yon  orb,  now  braz'd  to  this  accustom'd  scene, 
Will  show  you  who  invites  me.     I'll  detain  her. 
To  give  you  ample  leisure  for  such  note 
As  counterfeits  abide  not.  {Retires. ) 


ROBERT  JEPHSON. 


259 


Pal   Death!  'tis  she! 
There's  not  a  silken  braid  that  binds  her  hair, 
One  little  shred  of  all  that  known  attire 
That  wantons  in  the  wind,  but  to  my  heart 
Has  sent  such  sweet  disturbance,  that  it  beats 
Instinctive  of  her  coming,  ere  my  sight 
Enjoy'd  the  beauteous  wonder.      Soft!  what  now! 
See,  she  lets  down  the  cordage  of  her  shame 
To  hoist  him  to  her  arms.      I'll  look  no  more. 
Distraction!  Devil!     How  she  welcomes  him! 
That's  well,  that's  well !    Again;  grow  to  her  lips — 
Poison  and  aspics  rot  them!     Now  she  woos  him, 
Points  to  her  chamber,  and  invites  him  inward. 
May  adders  hiss  around  their  guilty  couch. 
And  ghosts  of  injur'd  lovers  rise  to  scare  them! 
Ay,  get  you  gone.     Oh,  for  a  griffin's  wing. 
To  bear  me  through  the  casement!     Deeds  like 

this 
Should  startle  every  spirit  of  the  grove, 
And  wake  enchantment  from  her  spell-hung  grot, 
To  shake  the  conscious  roof  about  their  heads. 
And  bear  them  to  the  scoff  of  modest  eyes 
Twin'd  in  the  wanton  fold.     Oh,  wretch  accurs'd! 
See  there  the  blasted  promise  of  thy  joys, 
Thy  best  hopes  bankrupt.     Do  I  linger  still? 
Here  find  a  grave,  and  let  thy  mangled  corse, 
When  her  lascivious  eye  peers  o'er  the  lawn. 
Satiate  the  harlot's  gaze. 

(Going  to/all  on  his  sword,  Rinaldo  rushes 
forward  and  2^'revents  him.) 

jRina.   What  frenzy's  this? 
Arm'd  'gainst  your  life!     In  pity  turn  the  point 
On  your  old  faithful  servant,  whose  heart  heaves 
Almost  to  bursting  to  behold  you  thus. 

Pal.   Hast  seen  it  then? 

Bina.  I  have  seen  your  wild  despair; 
And  bless'd  be  the  kind  monitor  within 
That  led  me  here  to  save  you. 

Pal.   Rather,  curs'd 
Be  thy  officious  fondness,  since  it  dooms  me 
To  lingering  misery.     Give  me  back  my  sword. 
Is't  come  to  this?     Oh:  I  could  tear  my  hair; 
Rip  up  this  credulous  breast.     Blind  dotard!  fool! 
Did  wit  or  malice  e'er  devise  a  legend 
To  parallel  this  vile  reality? 

Eina.  Disgrace  not  the  best  gift  of  manly  na- 
ture, 
Your  reason,  in  this  wild  extravagance. 

Pal.   And  think'st  thou  I  am  mad  without  a 
cause  ? 
I'll  tell  thee — 'Sdeath!  it  chokes  me — Lead  me 

hence. 
I  will  walk  boldly  on  the  billowy  deep. 
Or  blindfold  tread  the  sharp  and  perilous  ridge 
Of  icy  Caucasus,  nor  fear  my  footing; 
Play  with  a  fasting  lion's  fangs  unharm'd. 
And  stroke  his  rage  to  tameness.      But  hereafter, 
When  men  would  try  impossibilities. 
Let  them  seek  faith  in  woman.    Furies  seize  them! 

[HxeujU. 


[Paladore,  while  passing  through  a  forest  iu 
his  flight,  meets  with  two  ruffians  who  are 
murdering  a  woman.  He  attempts  to  rescue 
Iier,  discovers  her  to  be  Alind;i,  and  tliat,  to 
hide  his  villany,  Bireiio  had  paid  the  wretches 
to  murder  her.  She  gives  him  a  pajjer,  leveal- 
ing  Bireno's  wickedness,  and  lie  hastens  back 
to  court.] 

The  Princess  goes  towards  the  scaffold.     A  trum- 
pet soun<lx. 

1  Sen.   Hold,  on  your  lives! 
Bir.   What  means  that  trumpet's  voice? 
It  sounds  a  shrill  alarm. 

Enter  an  Esquire. 

Esq.  Arre-st  your  sentence! 
I  come  in  the  name  of  one  who  hears  with  horror 
This  barbarous  process,  to  proclaim  the  accuser 
Of  that  most  innocent  and  royal  lady, 
A  slanderer  and  villain;  who  accepts 
Her  just  defence,  and  by  the  law  of  arms 
Throws  down  this  gage,  and  claims  the  combat  for 
her. 

Bir.  Take  it,  Ascanio.     Bid  your  knight  appear, 
(If  such  his  order)  for  to  none  beneath 
Am  I  thus  bound  to  answer.     Speak  his  titles. 

Esq.   He  wills  not  I  reveal  him.     But  suffice  it. 
He  has  a  name  in  arms  that  will  not  shame 
The  noble  cause  he  fights  for. 

Bir.   Bid  him  enter. 
My  shield  and  sword.     Say,  I'm  deck'd  to  meet 
him.  {Erit  thf  E-^i/mre. 

Some  rash  adventurer,  prodigal  of  life, 
Brib'd  by  her  father's  gold  to  grace  her  fall. 
And  add  an  easy  trophy  to  my  banners. — 
Confusion!  Paladore! 

Enter  Paladore. 

Prin.   'Tis  he,  'tis  he! 
Then,  life,  thou  art  welcome! 

(A  loud  murmur  among  the  people.) 

Bir.   Marshal,  do  your  office! 
Furies  and  hell! — keep  order  in  the  lists! — 
Silence  that  uproar! — 

Pal.  Yes,  behold  me,  villain! 
1   have  thee  in  the  toils;  thou  canst  not  '.scape 

me. — 
But,  oh!  most  wrong'd  and  heavenly  excellence! 

( To  the  Prince.'is. ) 
How  shall  1  plead  for  jjardon?     Can  the  abuse 
Of  his  deep  craft  and  devilish  artifice, 
Fooling  my  nature's  plainness,  blanch  my  cheek 
From  the  deep  shame  that  my  too  ea.sy  faith 
Combin'd  with  hell  against  thee? 

Prin.   Rise,  my  soldier! 
Though  yet  I  know  not  by  what  subtle  practice 
Thy  noblene.'js  was  wrought  on,  nor  the  means 
That  since  reveal'd  his  fraud, — praise  be  to  heaven  I 


260 


JOSEPH   COOPER   WALKER. 


Thy  presence  plucks  my  lionour  from  the  grave. 
Thou  liv'st,   thou  kiiow'st  my  truth,   thou  wilt 
avenge  me. 

Pal.  Avenge  thee!  yes.     Did  his  right  hand 
grasp  thunder; 
Did  yelling  furies  combat  on  his  side 
(Pal'd  in  witli  circling  fires),  I  would  assail  him; 
Nor  cast  a  look  to  fortune  for  the  event. 

Bir.   Presumptuous  Briton!  think  not  that  bold 
mien, 
A  wanton's  favour,  or  thy  threats,  have  power 
To  shrink  the  sinews  of  a  soldier's  arm. 

Pal.   A  soldier's  arm!     Thou  double  murderer! 
Assassin  in  thy  intention  and  in  act. 
But,  ere  my  falchion  cleave  thy  treacherous  breast, 
I  will  divulge  thee. — Bring  that  ruffian  forth. 

One  of  the  Murderers  of  Alinda  hrotight  in. 

Two  hell-hounds,  such  as  this,  he  set  upon  me. 
One  fell  beneath  my  sword;  that  wretch  I  spar'd, 
Kneeling  for  mercy.     Let  your  justice  doom  him. 
Look  you  amaz'd!     Peruse  that  paper,  lords; 
His  compact  for  the  blood  of  a  fair  minion 
He  taught  to  sin,  and  made  her  wages  death. 
Ha!     Does  it  shake  thee?     See  Alinda's  form, 
Thy  panting  image  mangled  in  her  side, 
Stalks  from  her  sanguine  bed,  and  ghastly  smiles. 
To  aid  the  prowess  of  this  dauntless  soldier. 

Bir.   Destruction!     All's  reveal'd! 

Asc.   What,  turn'd  to  stone?  {To  Blreno.) 

Droop  not,    for  shame!      Be   quick,    retort  the 
charge! 

Bir.   All  false  as  hell !    And  thou — Defend  thy- 
self; 
Nor  blast  me  thus  with  thy  detested  presence. — 
This  to  thy  heart.         (They  fight.     Bireno  falls.) 


Pal.   Oh!  impotence  of  guilt 
An  infant's  lath  hath  fell'd  him.     Villain,  die! 
And  know  thy  shame,  and  the  deep  wound  that 

writhes  thee, 
Are  but  a  feeble  earnest  of  the  pangs 
Reserv'd  beneath  for  giant  crimes  like  thine. 
Prin.   Haste  to  the  king,  proclaim  this  bless'd 

event! 
Bir.   Perfidious  chance!      Caught   in  my  own 
device ! 
Accurs'd! — Ha!  they  drag  me — tear  me! — oh!^ 

(Dies. ) 
Prin.   I  have  a  thousand  things  to  ask — to  hear: 
But,  oh!  the  joy  to  see  thee  thus  again! 
To  owe  my  life — my  honour,  to  thy  love — 
These  tears,  these  rapturous  tears,  let  them  speak 
for  me. 
Pal.   I  could  endure  the  malice  of  my  fate; 
But  this  full  tide  of  such  excessive  bliss. 
Sure,  'tis  illusion  all!     It  quite  transports  me. 
When  I  have  borne  thee  from  this  scene  of  horror, 
Perhaps  I  may  grow  calm,  and  talk  with  reason. 

Enter  the  King,  Lucio,  and  Attendants. 

King.  Where  is  she  ?  Let  me  strain  her  to  my 
heart. 

They  cannot  part  us  now,  my  joy,  my  comfort! 

Thou  generous  youth,  how  can  my  overflowing 
soul 

Find  words  to  thank  thee?  Words!  poor  recom- 
pense! 

Here  I  invest  thee  with  the  forfeit  lands. 

The  wealth  and  honours  of  that  prostrate  traitor; 

This,  too,  is  little — then  receive  her  hand, 

Due  to  thy  love,  thy  courage,  and  thy  virtue; 

And  joys  unutterable  crown  your  union.  [Exeunt. 


JOSEPH    COOPER    WALKER. 


Born  1747  —  Died  1810. 


[Joseph  Cooper  Walker,  so  well  known  to 
all  antiquarians  and  students  of  ancient  litera- 
ture as  the  author  of  Historical  Memoirs  of 
the  Irish  Bards,vfiiii  born  iu  1747  at  St.  Valerie, 
near  Bray,  in  the  county  of  Wicklow.  The  early 
part  of  his  education  he  received  under  the 
care  of  Dr.  Ball,  and  afterwards  with  the  help 
of  private  tutors  acquired  an  excellent  know- 
ledge of  the  classical  and  modern  languages. 
While  yet  young  he  was  appointed  to  a  place 
in  the  Treasury  in  Dublin;  but  in  consequence 
of  bad  health,  he  went  on  the  Continent  and 
travelled  through  the  greater  part  of  Italy, 
where  he  acrpiired  a  strong  taste  for  the  fine 


arts  and  increased  his  love  of  literature.  After 
Ids  return  to  Ireland  he  was,  in  1787,  admitted 
a  member  of  the  Royal  Irish  Academy,  and  a 
little  later  chosen  secretary  to  the  Committee  of 
Antiquities,  a  post  he  held  for  a  couple  of  yeai-s. 
He  had  already  in  1786  produced  his  His- 
torical Memoirs  of  the  Irish  Bards,  a  work 
which  at  once  placed  him  iu  the  front  rank  of 
literary  antirjuarians.  Two  years  later  he 
issued  his  Historical  Essay  on  the  Dress  of  the 
Ancient  and  Modern  Irish,  in  which  volume 
he  also  printed  a  Memoir  on  the  Armour  and 
Weapons  of  the  Irish.  For  some  years  after 
this   he   contributed    largely  to   the    Trans- 


JOSEPH   COOPER   WALKER. 


261 


actio)is  of  the  Royal  Irish  Academy,  and 
among  his  many  papers  we  may  meutiou  a 
clever  one  on  "The  Irish  Stage."  In  1799 
appeared  at  London  An  Historical  Memoir  of 
Italian  Tragedy  from  the  Earliest  Period  to 
the  Present  Time,  by  a  Member  of  the  Arcadian 
Academy  of  Rome,  -which  in  1805  was  re- 
printed in  Edinburgh,  under  the  title  of  An 
Historical  and  Critical  Essay  on  the  Revival 
of  the  Drama  in  Italy.  On  the  12th  of  Apiil, 
1810,  after  a  lingering  illness,  Walker  died 
at  St.  Valerie,  the  place  of  his  birth.  His 
Memoirs  of  Alessandro  Tassoni,  edited  by  his 
brother  Samuel  Walker,  appeared  in  1815, 
and  is  a  work  which  contains  much  sound  cri- 
ticism. 

In  all  his  works  our  autlior  displays,  ac- 
cording to  a  critic  of  his  own  day,  "deep 
research  and  an  extensive  knowledge  in 
polite  literature;  and  he  treats  his  subject, 
however  abstruse,  with  an  ease,  liveliness, 
and  elegance  that  charm  his  readers."  In- 
deed there  can  scarcely  be  a  more  readable 
book  of  its  kind  than  that  on  Irish  dress.  To 
the  student  of  Irish  history  The  Memoirs  of 
the  Irish  Bards  is  an  invaluable  work,  but  to 
the  general  reader  there  is  not  sufficient  in- 
terest in  its  pages  to  warrant  us  in  making 
quotations.  The  work  on  the  Italian  drama  is 
not  so  interesting  to  many,  chiefly  because  of 
its  subject  not  rousing  our  sympathies,  but 
those  who  have  studied  Italian  literature 
readily  acknowledge  its  value. 

In  private  life  Walker  was  marked  by  easy 
manners  and  the  possession  of  many  genuine 
accomplishments.  In  his  conversation,  vmlike 
some  of  his  brother  antiquarians,  he  w£is  lively, 
and  his  countenance  constantly  glowed  with 
the  thoughts  that  animated  his  mind.] 


DRESS   OF   THE   ANCIENT   IRISH. 

(FROM    "HISTORICAL   ESSAY.") 

Amongst  the  ornaments  which  formerly 
adorned  the  fair  daughtei-s  of  this  isle,  the 
hodkin  is  peculiarly  deserving  our  notice. 
Whence  the  Irish  derived  this  implement,  I 
might  conjecture,  but  cannot  determine.  Al- 
though I  have  pursued  it  with  an  eager  in- 
quiry, I  have  not  been  able  to  trace  it  beyond 
the  foundation  of  the  celebrated  palace  of 
Eamania.  The  design  of  this  palace  (according 
to  our  old  chroniclers)  was  sketched  on  a  bed 


ul  sand  by  the  Empress  Macha  with  her  bod- 
kin. If  this  tradition  be  founded  in  reality, 
bodkins  must  have  been  worn  by  the  Irish 
ladies  several  centuries  Ijefore  the  Christian 
era.  But  I  should  be  contented  to  give  them 
a  less  remote,  provided  I  could  a.ssign  them  a 
more  certain  antiquity.  If  the  word  aiccde 
in  the  Brehon  laws  will  admit  of  being  trans- 
lated a  bodkin,  we  may  infer  their  use  in  Ire- 
land about  the  commencement  of  the  Christian 
era :  for  in  a  code  of  sumptuary  laws  of  the 
second  century  we  find  frequent  mention  of  the 
aiccde.  But  I  am  rather  inclined  to  consider 
the  aiccde  as  a  kind  of  broach  from  the 
circumstance  of  its  marking  the  rank  of  the 
wearer  by  its  value,  as  wa.s  formerly  the  c;use 
amongst  the  Higldandei-s,  whose  frequent  in- 
tercourse with  the  Irish  occiisioned  a  striking 
familiarity  in  the  customs  and  manners  of  both 
people. 

This  instrument  was  known  in  Ireland 
under  several  names,  viz.  coitit,  dealg,  meann- 
adh.  Its  uses  were  twofold :  it  was  equally 
worn  in  the  breast  and  head.  The  custom 
of  wearing  the  bodkin  in  the  breast  is 
alluded  to  in  the  following  passage  of  an  old 
Irish  MS.  romance,  called  The  Interview  be- 
tween FionMa  Cubhall  and  Cannan:— '^Can- 
nun,  when  he  said  this,  was  seated  at  the 
table;  on  his  right  hand  sat  his  wife,  and  upon 
his  left  his  beautiful  daughter  Findalve,  so 
exceedingly  fair,  that  the  snow  driven  by  the 
winter  storm  surpassed  not  her  fairness,  and 
her  cheeks  were  the  colour  of  the  blood  of  a 
young  calf.  Her  hair  hung  in  curling  ring- 
lets, and  her  teeth  were  like  pearls.  A  spacious 
veil  hung  from  her  lovely  head  down  on  her 
delicate  body,  and  the  veil  was  bound  by  a 
golden  bodkin." 

Such  bodkins  as  were  worn  in  the  head 
wei'e  termed  dealg-fuilt.  Even  at  this  day 
the  female  peasants  in  the  interior  parts  of 
this  kingdom,  like  the  women  of  the  same 
class  in  Spain  and  Turkey,  collect  their  hair 
at  top,  and  twisting  it  several  times  made  it 
fast  with  a  bodkin. 

Besides  these  uses,  the  bodkin  liad  another: 
it  was  sometimes  made  to  answer  the  purpose 
of  a  needle.  Hence  its  name  of  vieannadh- 
fiutghala.  To  be  so  employed  it  must  have  an 
eye.  It  is  in  a  bodkin  of  this  kind  that  Po})e's 
Ariel  threatens  to  imprison  such  of  his  sylphs 
as  are  careless  of  their  charge — 

"  Or  plung'd  in  lakes  of  bitter  washes  lie, 
Or  wedg'd  whole  ages  in  a  bodkin's  eye." 

Whether  or  not  the  Irish  ladies,  like  those 


262 


JOSEPH   COOPER  WALKER. 


of  the  neighbouring  nations,  employed  their 
bodkins  as  weapons  offensive  and  defensive, 
neither  tradition  nor  history  informs  us.  But 
such  of  those  implements  as  I  have  seen, 
certainly  seemed  as  cajjable  of  making  a  man's 
quietus,  as  that  with  which  Julius  CiJesar  is 
said  to  have  been  killed,  or  that  with  which 
Simekin  in  the  Reves  Tale  protected  the 
honour  of  his  wife. 

But  i^erhaps  we  should  not  confine  our  bod- 
kin to  the  toilet  of  the  fair.  However,  I  shall 
let  it  remain  there  until  I  am  properly  au- 
thorized either  to  give  it  a  place  in  the  breast, 
or  to  bury  its  body  in  the  hair  of  the  ancient 
heroes  of  this  isle.  According  to  the  inge- 
nious Mr.  Whitaker,  bodkins  constituted  a 
part  of  the  ornamental  dress  of  the  early 
British  kings.  This  he  asserts  on  the  authority 
of  coins.  And  from  the  works  of  some  of  the 
old  English  dramatists  it  appears  that  bodkins 
were  worn  by  Englishmen  during  the  middle 
ages. 

Of  the  dresses  of  the  turbulent  reign  of 
James  II.  I  cannot  speak  with  cei-tainty ;  for 
little  is  certainly  known.  If  any  particular 
fashion  prevailed  at  that  time,  it  was  probably 
of  English  origin.  Some  of  the  female  pea- 
santry, however,  still  continued  attached  to 
their  old  habits.  Of  these  I  will  here  describe 
one,  as  worn  to  the  hour  of  her  death  by  Mary 
Morgan,  a  poor  woman,  who  was  maiTied  be- 
fore the  battle  of  the  Boyne,  and  lived  to  the 
year  1786.  On  her  head  she  wore  a  roll  of 
linen,  not  unlike  that  on  which  milkmaids 
carry  their  pails,  but  with  this  difFei-ence,  that 
it  was  higher  behind  than  before ;  over  this 
she  combed  her  hair,  and  covered  the  whole 
with  a  little  round -eared  cap  or  coif,  with  a 
border  sewed  on  plain;  over  all  this  was 
thrown  a  kerchief,  which,  in  her  youth,  was 
made  fast  on  the  top  of  her  head,  and  let  to 
fall  carelessly  behind ;  in  her  old  age  it  was 
pinned  under  her  chin.  Her  jacket  was  of 
brown  cloth,  or  pressed  frieze,  and  made  to  fit 
close  to  the  shape  by  means  of  whalebone 
wrought  into  it  before  and  behind;  this  was 
laced  in  front,  but  not  so  as  to  meet,  and 
through  the  lacing  were  drawn  the  ends  of 
her  neckerchief.  The  sleeves,  halfway  to  the 
elbows,  were  made  of  the  same  kind  of  cloth 
with  tlie  jacket ;  thence  continued  to  the  wrist 
of  red  chamlet  striped  with  green  ferreting ; 
and  there,  being  turned  up,  formed  a  little 
cufl"  embraced  with  three  circles  of  green  rib- 
band. Her  petticoat  was  invariably  of  either 
scarlet  frieze  or  cloth,  bordered  with  three  rows 


of  green  ribband.  Her  apron  green  serge, 
striped  longitudinally  with  scarlet  ferreting 
and  bound  with  the  same.  Her  hose  were 
blue  worsted ;  and  her  shoes  of  black  leather, 
fastened  with  thongs  or  strings. 

This  fashion  of  habit,  however,  had  not  been 
always  peculiar  to  the  peasantry:  it  ajjpears  to 
have  prevailed  formeiiy  in  the  principal  Irish 
families.  About  the  close  of  the  last  century 
there  lived  at  Credan,  near  Waterford,  a  Mi-s. 
Power,  a  lady  of  considerable  fortune,  who, 
as  being  lineally  descended  from  some  of  the 
kings  of  Minister,  was  vidgarly  called  the 
Queen  of  Credan.  This  lady,  proud  of  her 
country  and  descent,  always  spoke  the  Irish 
language,  and  affected  the  dress  and  manners 
of  the  ancient  Irish.  Her  dress,  in  point  of 
fashion,  answered  exactly  to  that  of  Mary 
Morgan  as  just  described,  but  was  made  of 
richer  materials.  The  border  of  her  coif  was 
of  the  finest  Brussels  lace;  her  kerchief  of 
clear  muslin ;  her  jacket  of  the  finest  brown 
cloth,  trimmed  with  narrow  gold  lace,  and  the 
sleeves  of  crimson  velvet  striped  with  the 
same;  and  her  petticoat  of  the  finest  scai'let 
cloth,  bordered  with  two  rows  of  broad  gold 
lace. 

The  Huguenots  who  followed  the  fortunes  of 
William  III.  brought  with  them  the  fashions 
of  their  country.  But  I  cannot  find  that  these 
fashions  were  infectious ;  at  least  it  does  not 
appear  that  the  Irish  caught  them. 

The  hat  was  now  sliaped  in  the  Ramillie 
cock.  The  periwig,  which  had  been  of  several 
years'  standing  in  Ireland,  was  not  yet  gene- 
rally worn :  it  was  confined  to  the  learned  pro- 
fessions, or  to  those  who  affected  gravity. 
"Our  ignorant  nation  (says  Farquhar,  in  a 
comedy  written  in  this  reign),  our  ignorant 
nation  imagine  a  full  wig  as  infallible  a  token 
of  wit  as  the  laurel." 

The  head-dress  which,  the  Spectator  saj'S, 
"  made  the  women  of  such  an  enormous  sta- 
ture, that  we  appeared  as  grasshoppers  before 
them,"  now  prevailed  here.  This  infoi-mation 
I  owe  to  the  inquisitiveness  of  Lucinda,  in  the 
comedy  which  I  have  just  quoted. 

"Lucinda.  Tell  us  some  news  of  your  coun- 
try; I  have  heard  the  strangest  stoi'ies,  that 
the  people  wear  horns  and  hoofs. 

"Roebuck.  Yes,  faith,  a  great  many  wear 
horns;  but  we  have  that,  among  other  lauda])le 
fashions,  from  London  ;  I  think  it  came  over 
with  your  mode  of  wearing  high  top-knots; 
for  ever  since  the  men  and  wives  bear  their 
heads  exalted  alike.  They  were  both  fashions 
that  took  wonderfully." 


JOSEPH   COOPER   WALKER. 


263 


The  reign  of  Queen  Aune  seems  to  have 
been  an  age  of  gay  attire :  the  single  dress  of 
a  woman  of  (quality  then  was  the  product  of 
an  hundred  cHmes.  Swift,  in  a  poem  written 
in  1708,  thus  metamorphoses  the  dress  of  his 
Goody  Baucis  into  the  dress  of  the  day. 

"Instead  of  home-spun  coifs,  were  seen 
Good  pinners  edg'd  with  colberteen, 
Her  petticoat  transfonn'd  apace, 
Became  black  satin  iloimc'd  with  lace. 
Plain  Goody  would  no  longer  down, 
'Twas  Madam  in  her  grogram  gown." 

Besides  the  different  articles  of  dress  enu- 
merated in  those  lines,  the  Irish  lads  wore 
short  jackets  with  close  sleeves,  made  of 
Spanish  cloth,  each  side  of  which  was  dyed  of 
a  different  colour:  these  jackets  were  fastened 
on  the  breast  with  ribbands.  Their  petticoats 
were  swelled  to  a  monstrous  circumference 
by  means  of  hoops.  High  stays,  piked  before 
and  behind,  gave  an  awkward  stiffness  to 
their  carriage.  Their  shoes  were  of  red  and 
blue  Spanish  leather,  laced  with  broad  gold 
and  silver  lace  at  top  and  behind ;  the  heels 
broad,  and  of  a  moderate  height :  some  were 
fastened  with  silver  clasps,  others  with  knots 
or  roses.  Their  stockings  were  generally  of 
blue  or  scarlet  woi-sted  or  silk,  ornamented 
with  clocks  worked  with  gold  or  silver  thread : 
neither  thread  nor  cotton  hose  were  then 
known.  And  their  necks  were  usually  adorned 
with  black  collars,  tied  in  front  with  ribbands 
of  divers  colours. 

I  cannot  find  that  the  riding-coat,  in  such 
general  use  among  the  English  ladies  in  this 
reign,  and  so  justly  reprobated  by  the  Specta- 
tor, was  now  worn  here :  dress  had  not  yet 
mingled  the  sexes.  A  lady  in  those  days 
mounted  her  horse  in  the  same  dress  in  which 
she  entered  the  drawing-room ; — nay,  she  did 
not  even  forget  her  hoop. 

"  There  is  not  (says  Addison)  so  variable  a 
thing  in  nature  as  a  lady's  head-dress."  The 
justness  of  this  observation  deters  me  from 
attempting  to  describe  the  head-dress  of  the 
ladies  of  those  days.  I  shall  be  content  with 
concluding  that  it  rose  and  fell  with  the  head- 
dress of  the  English  ladies,  which,  within 
Addison's  memory,  rose  and  fell  above  thirty 
degi'ees.  I  must,  however,  obsei've  that  I 
cannot  learn,  on  the  strictest  inquiry,  that  the 
lovely  tresses  of  nature  were  then  permitted, 
as  in  the  present  day,  to  wanton  on  the  neck, 
where  (to  borrow  the  language  of  Hogarth) 
"  the  many  waving  and  contrasted  turns  of 
naturally  intermingling  locks  ravish  the  eye 


witli   the   pleasure  of  the  pursuit,  especially 
when  put  in  motion  by  a  gentle  Ijreeze." 

But  though  I  waive  any  attempt  to  describe 
the  fashion  of  the  ladies'  hair  at  that  time,  I 
ought  not  to  omit  to  mention,  tliat  they  wore 
hoods  of  divers  colours,  and  beaver  hats 
trimmed  with  broad  gold  and  silver  lace,  and 
a  buckle  in  front. 

Wafted  by  the  breath  of  fa.shion,  the  mask 
alighted  in  this  island.  Immediately  the  ladies 
took  it  up  and  appeared  in  it  in  the  streets, 
public  walks,  and  theatres.  Under  this  dis- 
guise they  could  now,  without  fear  of  discover}', 
rally  their  lovei-s  or  their  friends,  and  safely 
smile  at  the  obscenity  of  a  comedy.  Patches, 
too,  were  much  worn:  but  whether  or  not  their 
position  was  determined,  as  in  England,  by 
the  spirit  of  party,  I  cannot  say. 

I  have  been  informed  that  some  Irish 
ladies  of  this  reign  affected  the  di-ess  in  which 
the  unfortunate  Queen  of  Scots  is  usually  de- 
picted: so  that  we  may  presume  the  ruff  now 
occasionally  rose  about  the  neck  of  our  lovely 
countrywomen. 

The  dress  of  the  gentlemen  of  this  reign 
was  more  uniform  than  that  of  the  ladies. 
Their  coats  and  waistcoats  were  laced  with 
broad  gold  or  silver  lace :  the  skirts  of  each 
were  long,  and  the  sleeves  of  the  coat  slashed. 
Instead  of  stocks  they  wore  cravats,  edged 
with  Flandei-s  or  Brussels  lace,  which,  after 
passing  several  times  round  the  neck,  wan- 
dered through  the  button-holes  of  the  coat, 
almost  the  whole  length  of  the  body.  Their 
hose,  like  those  of  the  ladies,  were  blue  or 
scarlet  worsted  or  silk,  worked  with  gold  or 
silver  clocks.  Their  shoes  in  this  (and  in  the 
following  reign)  had  broad  square  toes,  short 
quarters,  and  high  tops ;  and  were  made  fast 
with  small  buckles.  Their  heads— even  the 
heads  of  youthful  beaux— were  enveloped  in 
monstrous  periwigs,  on  which  perched  a  small 
felt  hat.  And  through  the  skirts  of  tlieir 
coats,  stiffened  with  buckram,  peeped  the  hilt 
of  a  small  sword. 

Long  cloaks  too  of  Spanish  cloth,  each  side 
dyed  of  a  different  colour,  were  now  worn  by 
the  gentlemen. 

With  the  line  of  the  Stuarts  I  shall  close 
this  crade  es.say.  For,  from  the  accession  of 
George  I.  to  the  present  day  fashion  has  been 
such  a  varying  goddess  in  this  country,  that 
neither  history,  tradition,  nor  painting  has 
been  able  to  preserve  all  her  mimic  forms: 
like  Proteus  struggling  in  the  arms  of  Tele- 
machus  on  the  Pharian  coast,  she  pa-ssed  from 
shape  to  shape  with  the  rapidity  of  thought. 


264 


AETHUR  MUEPHY. 


ARTHUR     MURPHY. 


Born  1727  — Died  1805. 


[Arthur  Murphy,  actor,  lawyer,  dramatist, 
aud  editor,  was  born  at  Clooniquin,  in  the 
county  of  Eoscommon,  in  the  year  1727.  His 
fatlier  was  a  merchant  in  good  repute,  who 
unfortunately  i^erished  in  1729  on  his  passage 
to  Philadelphia,  so  that  the  education  of  the 
boy  devolved  on  his  mother,  who  sent  him  to 
the  College  of  St.  Omer,  where  he  remained 
six  years,  and  became  a  thorough  master  of  the 
Latin  and  Greek  languages.  After  leaving  St. 
Omer  in  1747  he  resided  with  his  mother  for 
three  years,  and  then  entered  the  counting- 
house  of  his  uncle  at  Cork,  where  he  remained 
for  a  couple  of  years.  Before  that  short  time 
had  expired,  however,  he  had  given  ample 
proofs  of  his  unsuitableness  for  business.  It 
was  the  original  intention  of  his  relatives  that 
he  should  go  out  to  the  West  Indies  to  take 
charge  of  an  estate  belonging  to  his  uncle,  but 
his  wayward  temper,  his  dabbling  in  verses, 
and  his  loose  though  not  vicious  ways,  deterred 
his  uncle  from  trusting  him  in  a  responsible 
post,  and  in  1751  he  returned  to  his  mother 
who  now  resided  in  London. 

In  the  latter  part  of  1752  he  took  the  first 
open  step  in  his  long  literary  career  by  issuing 
apolitical  periodical  called  Gray's  Inn  Journal. 
This  was  no  great  success,  but  it  continued  to 
exist  for  two  years,  and  was  the  means  of 
Murjihy's  introduction  to  a  great  number  of 
actors  and  men  of  letters  in  London.  He 
went  on  the  stage  at  the  advice  of  Foote. 
He  appeared  in  the  onerous  part  of  Othello, 
and  although  his  success  was  not  great,  he 
managed  by  his  good  figure  and  other  quali- 
ties to  gain  a  position  which  enabled  him  to 
pay  otf  his  debts  and  save  £400.  When  this 
point  was  reached  he  determined  to  leave  the 
stage  and  join  the  bar.  His  apjjlication  for 
admission  to  the  Middle  Temple  met  with  a 
refusal  in  consequence  of  his  connection  with 
the  stage,  but  at  Lincoln's  Inn  he  found  greater 
liberality  of  opinion,  and  was  received  in  1757, 
and  called  to  the  bar  in  1762.  A  few  years 
after  lie  had  trod  the  stage  at  Drury  Lane  he 
appeared  jus  a  pleader  at  Westminster  Hall. 
He  occfisioually  attended  the  circuits,  but  with- 
out much  success,  and  he  was  forced  to  eke  out 
his  income  by  i)olitical  writing.  In  1788  he 
left  the  bar  in  disgust,  the  last  straw  which 
broke  the  back  of  his  patience  being  the  ap- 


pointment of  a  junior  as  king's  counsel.  From 
this  time  until  his  death  he  devoted  himself 
entirely  to  literature,  with  the  exception  of 
the  time  necessary  to  perform  the  duties  of  a 
commissioner  of  bankruptcy,  to  which  post  he 
was  appointed  in  1798  by  the  interest  of  Lord 
Loughborough. 

Murphy's  first  dramatic  attempt,  The  Ap- 
prentice, was  produced  shortly  before  he  joined 
the  stage.  In  1759  his  tragedy  of  The  Orphan 
of  China  was  the  means  of  making  Mrs.  Yates 
at  once  a  great  favourite  with  the  public,  and 
in  1761  she  also  had  another  success  with  the 
author's  All  in  the  Wrong.  This  last  comedy 
was  also  a  great  financial  success  to  Murphy, 
and  with  Know  your  Own  Mind  and  The  Way 
to  Keep  Him,  held  the  stage  until  a  few  years 
ago ;  indeed  the  three  plays  may  yet  be  seen 
acted  occasionally  in  provincial  theatres.  The 
Grecian  Daughter,  a  tragedy,  Three  Weeks  after 
Marriage,  and  The  Citizen,  both  comedies,  were 
also  successes,  and  raised  their  author's  repu- 
tation as  a  dramatist. 

In  1792,  after  his  retirement  to  Hammer- 
smith, Murphy  published  his  Essay  on  the 
Life  and  Genius  of  Dr.  Johnson,  a  work  in 
which  he  defended  his  friend  from  the  many 
attacks  which  it  had  then  become  the  fashion 
to  make  upon  him.  In  1793  appeared  his 
scholarly  translation  of  Tacitus  with  an  essay 
on  his  life  and  genius,  which  has  frequently 
been  reprinted.  He  also  wrote  a  Life  of 
Fielding,  and  shortly  before  his  death  a  Life 
of  Garrick,  which  last  is  generally  reputed  his 
least  talented  work.  In  1798  ajipeared  his 
tragedy  of  Arminius,  in  which  he  displayed 
great  warmth  in  favour  of  the  then  pending 
war,  and  for  which  he  was  granted  a  pen- 
sion of  £200  a  year.  This  he  enjoyed  till 
his  death,  which  occurred  at  Knightsbridge, 
June,  1805,  in  the  seventy-eighth  year  of 
his  age. 

In  addition  to  the  works  already  named 
Murphy  wrote  several  farces,  sketches,  pro- 
logues, epilogues,  addresses,  and  contributions 
to  periodicid  literature.  During  his  political 
career  he  also  produced  The  Test  and  The 
Auditor,  weekly  papei-s  in  defence  of  the  ex- 
isting government;  and  in  1786  he  edited  a 
collection  of  his  own  works  in  seven  volumes 
— plays,  poems,  and  miscellanies,] 


ARTHUR  MURPHY. 


265 


HOW   TO    FALL   OUT. 

(from  "thrkk  weeks  after  marriage.") 
Sir  Charles  and  Lady  Rackett. 

Lady  R.  "Well,  now,  let's  go  to  rest ; — but, 
Sir  C'harles,  how  shockingly  you  played  that 
last  rubber,  when  I  stood  looking  over  you. 

Sir  C.  My  love,  I  played  the  truth  of  the 
game. 

Ladu  R.  No,  indeed,  my  dear,  you  played 
it  wrong. 

Sir  C.  Pho!  nonsense!  You  don't  under- 
stand it. 

Lady  R.  I  beg  your  pardon,  I'm  allowed  to 
play  better  than  you. 

Sir  C.  All  conceit,  my  dear ;  I  was  perfectly 
right. 

Lady  R.  No  such  thing.  Sir  Charles;  the 
diamond  was  the  play. 

Sir  C.  Pho,  pho!  ridiculous!  The  club  was 
the  card  against  the  world. 

Lady  R.  Oh!  no,  no,  no,  I  say  it  was  the 
diamond. 

Sir  C.  Zounds !  madam,  I  say  it  was  the 
club. 

Lady  R.  What  do  you  fly  into  such  a  passion 
fori 

Sir  C.  Death  and  fury,  do  you  think  I  don't 
know  what  I'm  about?  I  tell  you,  once  more, 
the  club  was  the  judgment  of  it. 

Lady  R.  Maybe  so ;  have  it  your  own  way, 
sir.  (Walh  about  and  sings.) 

Sir  C.  Vexation !  you're  the  strangest  woman 
that  ever  lived ;  there's  no  conversing  with 
you.  Look  ye  here,  my  Lady  Rackett ;  it's  the 
clearest  case  in  the  world;  I'll  make  it  plain 
to  you  in  a  moment. 

Lady  R.  Well,  sir!— ha,  ha,  ha! 

(With  a  sneerhig  laugh.) 

Sir  C.  I  had  four  cards  left,  a  trump  was 
led,  they  were  six ;  no,  no,  no,  they  were  seven, 
and  we  nine ;  then,  you  know,  the  beauty  of 
the  Jilay  was  to — 

Lady  R.  Well,  now,  it's  amazing  to  me  that 
you  can't  see  it ;  give  me  leave,  Sir  Charles. 
Your  left-hand  adversary  had  led  his  last 
trump,  and  he  had  before  finessed  the  club, 
and  roughed  the  diamond ;  now  if  you  had  put 
on  your  diamond — 

Sir  C.  Zounds!  madam,  but  we  played  for 
the  odd  trick. 

Lady  R.  And  sure  the  play  for  the  odd 
trick — 

Sir  C.  Death  and  fury!  can't  you  hear  me? 

Lady  R.  Go  on,  sir. 


you 


Sir  C.  Zounds!  hear  me,  I  say.     Will 
hear  me? 

Lady  R.  I  never  heard  the  like  in  my  life. 
{Hums  a  tune,  and  walks  about  fretfully.) 

Sir  C.  Why,  then,  you  are  enougli  to  pro- 
voke the  patience  of  a  Stoic.  {Looks  at  her, 
and  she  ivalks  about  and  laughs  uneasy.)  Very 
well,  madam  :  you  know  no  more  of  the  game 
than  your  father's  leaden  Hercules  on  the  top 
of  the  house.  You  know  no  more  of  whist 
than  he  does  of  gardening. 

Lady  R.  Ha,  ha,  ha! 

{Takes  o^U  a  glass  and  settles  her  hair.) 

Sir  C.  You're  a  vile  woman,  and  I'll  not 
slee]!  another  night  under  the  .same  roof  with 
you. 

Lady  R.  As  you  please,  sir. 

Sir  C.  Madam,  it  shall  be  as  I  please.  I'll 
order  my  chariot  this  moment.  {Going.)  I 
know  how  the  cards  should  be  played  ;is  well 
as  any  man  in  England,  that  let  me  tell  you. 
{Going.)  And  when  your  family  were  stand- 
ing behind  counters  measuring  out  tape  and 
bartering  for  Whitechapel  needles,  my  ances- 
tors— madam,  my  ancestors — were  squandering 
away  whole  estates  at  cards, — whole  estates, 
my  Lady  Rackett.  {She  hums  a  tune,  and  he 
looks  at  her.)  Why,  then,  by  all  that's  dear 
to  me,  I'll  never  exchange  another  word  with 
you,  good,  bad,  or  indifferent.  Look  ye,  my 
Lady  Rackett,  thus  it  stood;  the  trump  being 
led,  it  was  then  my  business — 

Lady  R.  To  play  the  diamond,  to  be  sure. 

Sir  C.  D n  it ;  I  have  done  with  you  for 

ever,  and  so  you  may  tell  your  father.    \Exit. 

Lady  R.  What  a  passion  the  gentleman's 
in!  Ha,  ha,  ha!  {Laughs  in  a  peevish  manner.) 
I  promise  him  I'll  not  give  uj)  my  judgment 

Re-enter  Sir  Charles. 

Sir  C.  My  Lady  R;ickett,  look  ye,  ma'am ; 
once  more,  out  of  pure  good-nature- — 

Lady  R.  Sir,  I  am  convinced  of  your  good- 
nature. 

Sir  C.  That,  and  that  only  prevails  with  me 
to  tell  you,  the  club  was  the  play. 

Lady  R.  Well,  be  it  so;  I  liave  no  objection. 

Sir  C.  It's  the  clearest  point  in  the  world  ; 
we  were  nine,  and — 

Lady  R.  And  for  that  very  reason,  you 
know,  the  club  w;\s  the  best  in  the  house. 

Sir  C.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  talking  to 
you.  You're  a  base  woman.  ...  I  tell  you 
the  diamond  was  not  the  play,  and  here  1 
take  my  final  leave  of  you.  ( Walks  back  as 
fast  as  he  caji.)  I  am  resolved  u|X)n  it,  and  I 
know  the  club  was  not  the  best  in  the  house. 


266 


EDWARD   LYSAGHT. 


EDWARD     LYSAGHT. 


Born  1763  — Died  1810. 


["Pleasant  Ned  Lysaght,"  as  he  was  com- 
monly called,  barrister,  wit,  and  song-writer, 
■ft'as  the  son  of  John  Lysaght,  Esq.  of  Brick- 
hill  in  the  county  of  Clare,  and  was  born  on 
the  21st  of  December,  1763.  His  early  days 
were  passed  amid  the  romantic  associations 
that  surrounded  his  father's  home,  and  the 
names  of  the  ancient  heroes  and  princes  of 
his  country  were  familiar  in  his  mouth  as 
household  words.  When  old  enough  he  was 
sent  to  the  academy  in  Cashel  conducted  by 
the  Rev.  Patrick  Hare,  a  man  of  undovibted 
talent,  but  said  to  have  had  little  of  the  milk 
of  human  kindness  in  his  composition. 

At  this  school  Lysaght  soon  began  to  dis- 
tingiiish  himself  by  his  wit  and  humour  as 
well  as  personal  courage,  and  became  a  great 
favourite  with  his  companions.  He  did  not 
neglect  his  studies,  however,  and  in  1779 
entered  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  his  leaving 
C'ashel  being  cause  of  much  sorrow  to  both 
teachers  and  pupils.  While  he  was  at  Trin- 
ity his  father  died,  and  Lysaght,  full  of  deep 
grief,  returned  home  to  his  mother.  With  her 
he  remained  for  some  time,  and  in  1784  he 
was  after  examination  admitted  a  student  of 
the  Middle  Temple,  London.  Before  long  he 
gained  some  of  the  best  prizes,  and  having 
taken  his  degree  of  M.A.  at  Oxford,  was  called 
to  the  English  and  Irish  bar  in  1798. 

After  a  time  lie  married,  but  his  practice 
continued  meagre,  and  Sir  Jonah  Barrington 
says  he  discovered  that  his  father-in-law, 
whom  he  had  believed  to  be  a  wealthy  Jew, 
was  only  a  bankrupt  Christian.  His  creditors 
pressing  him,  Lysaght  left  England  and  re- 
turned to  Ireland,  resolved  to  make  it  his 
future  home.  He  soon  won  the  good  wishes 
and  esteem  of  the  people  generally,  and,  what 
was  even  better,  his  practice  began  to  improve, 
and  he  gained  reputation  on  circuit  as  a  fluent 
speaker.  He  now  occupied  his  leisure  hours 
— and  there  were  leisure  hours  in  those  days 
for  even  the  busiest — in  verse-making,  and  the 
pi'oduction  of  many  a  witty  skit  now  utterly 
lost.  In  the  Volunteer  movement  he  took  a 
prominent  and  active  part,  and  helped  it  for- 
ward both  by  tongue  and  pen.  When  the 
movement  wliich  resulted  in  the  Union  began, 
Lysaght  opposed  it  with  all  his  power,  and, 
though  repeatedly  tempted,  remained  to  the 


last  unbribable  and  patriotic.  In  1810,  when 
he  had  come  to  believe  that  Ireland  would 
never  more  take  her  place  among  the  nations 
of  the  earth,  he  died,  regretted  by  all  who 
knew  him,  or  who  had  listened  to  his  wit  that 
so  often  set  the  court  as  well  as  the  table  in  a 
roar. 

Lysaght's  poetry  was,  like  himself,  full  of 
wit  and  humour,  with  an  under-stratum  of  feel- 
ing and  sentiment,  and  a  strength  and  direct- 
ness of  expression  which  were  characteristic  of 
him  in  everyday  life.  His  style  is  essentially 
a  healthy  one,  escaping  on  the  one  hand  from 
the  stiffness  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived,  yet 
free  from  license  and  not  overloaded  with 
ornament.  His  insight  into  character,  especi- 
ally Irish  character,  was  wonderful,  and  his 
"  Sprig  of  Shillelah "  remains  to  this  day  a 
perfect  photograph  of  the  now  extinct  being 
it  portrays.  The  respect  of  the  bench  and  bar 
in  Ireland  for  Lysaght's  memory  was  shown 
by  their  donation  of  £2520  for  his  widow  and 
daughters.  A  volume  of  Poems  hy  the  late 
Edward  Lysaght,  Esq.  was  published  in  Dublin 
in  1811,  but  it  does  not  contain  some  of  his 
best  effusions,  many  of  which  are  now  doubt- 
less lost.] 


KATE   OF   GARNAVILLA.i 

Have  you  been  at  Garnavilla? 

Have  you  seen  at  Garnavilla 
Beauty's  train  trip  o'er  the  plain 

With  lovely  Kate  of  Garnavilla? 
Oh!  she's  pure  as  virgin  snows 

Ere  they  light  on  woodland  hill-0; 
Sweet  as  dew-drop  on  wild  rose 

Is  lovely  Kate  of  Garnavilla! 

Philomel,  I've  listened  oft 

To  thy  lay,  nigh  weeping  willow: 

Oh!  the  strains  more  sweet,  more  soft, 
That  flows  from  Kate  of  Garnavilla. 
Have  you  been,  &c. 

As  a  noble  ship  I've  seen 

Sailing  o'er  the  swelling  billow, 


'  SuuK  to  the  well-known  air  of  "Roy's  Wife,"  to  which 
Burns  also  wrote  words  not  excelling  these  of  Lysaght. 


EDWARD   LYSAGHT. 


267 


So  I've  marked  tlie  graceful  iniuu 
Of  lovely  Kate  of  Garnavilla. 

Have  you  been,  &c. 

If  poets'  prayers  can  banish  cares, 

No  cares  t*hall  come  to  Garnavilla; 
Joy's  bright  rays  shall  gild  her  days, 

And  dove-like  peace  perch  on  her  pillow. 
Charming  maid  of  Garnavilla! 
Lovely  maid  of  Garnavilla! 
Beauty,  grace,  and  virtue  wait 
On  lovely  Kate  of  Garnavilla. 


THE   SPRIG   OF   SHILLELAH. 

Oh!  love  is  tlie  soul  of  a  neat  Irishman, 

He  loves  all  that  is  lovely,  loves  all  that  he  can, 

With  his  sprig  of  shillelah  and   shamrock  so 
green ! 
His  heart  is  good-humoured,  'tis  honest  and  sound. 
No  envj-  or  malice  is  there  to  be  found; 
He  courts  and  he  marries,  he  drinks  and  he  fights, 
For  love,  all  for  love,  for  in  that  he  delights, 

With  his   sprig  of  shillelah  and  shamrock   so 
green ! 

Who  has  e'er  had  the  luck  to  see  Donnybrook  Fair? 
An  Irishman,  all  in  his  glory,  is  there. 

With  his  sprig  of  shillelah  and  shamrock   so 

green! 
His  clothes  spick  and  span  new,  without  e'er  a 

speck, 
A  neat  Barcelona  tied  round  his  white  neck; 
He  goes  to  a  tent,  and  he  spends  half-a-crown, 
He  meets  with  a  friend,  and  for  love  knocks  him 

down. 
With  his  sprig  of  shillelah  and  shamrock  so 

green! 

At  evening  returning,  as  homeward  he  goes, 
His  heart  soft  with  whisky,  his  head  soft  with 

blows 
From  a  sprig  of  shillelah  and  shamrock  so  green! 
He  meets  with  his  Sheelah,  who,  frowning  a  smile. 
Cries,  "Get  ye  gone,  Pat,"  yet  consents  all  the 

while. 
To  the  priest  soon  they  go,  and  nine  months  after 

that, 
A  baby  cries  out,  "How  d'ye  do,  father  Pat, 
With  your  sprig  of  shillelah  and  shamrock  so 

green?" 

Bless  the  country,  say  I,  that  gave  Patrick  his 

birth, 
Bless  the  land  of  the  oak,  and  its  neighbouring 

earth. 
Where  grow  the  shillelah  and  shamrock  so  green ! 


May  the  sons  of  the  Thames,  the  Tweed,  and  the 

Shannon, 
Drub  the  foes  who  dare  i)lant  on  our  confines  a 

cannon; 
United  and  happy,  at  Loyalty's  shrine, 
May  the  rose  and   the  thistle  long   flourish  and 

twine 
Round  the  sprig  of  shillelah  and  shamrock  so 

green! 


OrR   ISLAND. 


May  God,  in  whose  hand 
Is  the  lot  of  each  land — 

Who  rules  over  ocean  and  dry  land — 
In.spire  our  good  king 
From  his  presence  to  fling 

111  advisers  who'd  ruin  our  island. 
Don't  we  feel  'tis  our  dear  native  island! 
A  fertile  and  fine  little  island! 

May  Orange  and  Green 

No  longer  be  seen 
Bestain'd  with  the  blood  of  our  island. 

The  fair  ones  we  prize 
Declare  they  despise 

Those  who'd  make  it  a  slavish  and  vile  land; 
Be  their  smiles  our  reward, 
And  we'll  gallantly  guard 

All  the  rights  and  delights  of  our  island — 
For,  oh!  'tis  a  lovely  green  island! 
Bright  beauties  adorn  our  dear  island! 

At  St.  Patrick's  command 

Vipers  quitted  our  land — 
But  he's  wanted  again  in  our  island! 

For  her  interest  and  pride, 
We  oft  fought  by  the  side 

Of  England,  that  haughty  and  high  land; 
Nay,  we'd  do  so  again, 
If  she'd  let  us  remain 

A  free  and  a  flourishing  island — 
But  she,  like  a  crafty  and  sly  land, 
Dissension  excites  in  our  island, 

And,  our  feuds  to  adjust, 

She  would  lay  in  tlie  dust 
All  the  freedom  and  .strength  of  our  island. 

A  fcw  years  ago — 
Though  now  she  says  no — 

We  agreed  with  that  surly  and  sly  land, 
That  each,  as  a  friend. 
Should  the  other  defend. 

And  the  crown  be  the  link  of  each  i.*land; 
'Twas  the  final  state-bond  of  each  island; 
Independence  we  .swore  to  each  island. 


268 


EDWAED   LYSAGHT. 


Are  v>e  grown  so  absurd 
As  to  credit  her  word, 
When  she's  breaking  her  oath  with  our  island? 

Let  us  steadily  stand 

By  our  king  and  our  land, 

And  it  sha'n't  be  a  slavish  or  vile  land; 
Nor  impudent  Pitt 
Unpunished  commit 

An  attempt  on  the  rights  of  our  island. 
Each  voice  should  resound  through  our  island — 
You're  my  neighbour,  but.  Bull,  this  is  my  land! 

Nature's  favourite  spot — 

And  I'd  sooner  be  shot 
Than  surrender  the  rights  of  our  island! 


SWEET   CHLOE. 

Sweet  Chloe  advised  me,  in  accents  divine, 

The  joys  of  the  bowl  to  surrender; 
Nor  lose,  in  the  turbid  excesses  of  wine, 

Delights  more  ecstatic  and  tender; 
She  bade  me  no  longer  in  vineyards  to  bask. 
Or  stagger,  at  orgies,  the  dupe  of  a  flask, 
For  the  sigh  of  a  sot's  but  the  scent  of  the  cask, 

And  a  bubble  the  bliss  of  the  bottle. 

To  a  soul  that's  exhausted,  or  sterile,  or  dry, 
The  juice  of  the  grape  may  be  wanted; 

But  mine  is  reviv'd  by  a  love-beaming  eye, 
And  with  fancy's  gay  f.ow'rets  enchanted. 

Oh!  who  but  an  owl  would  a  garland  entwine 

Of  Bacchus's  ivy — and  myrtle  resign  ? 

Yield  the  odours  of  love,  for  the  vapours  of  wine, 
And  Chloe's  kind  kiss  for  a  bottle  ! 


THY  SPIRIT  IS  FROM  BONDAGE  FREE. 

Thy  spirit  is  from  bondage  free ! 
Death  gave  thee  guiltless  liberty; 
Sweet  victim  of  ungrateful  love, 
Flit  happy  through  the  realms  above ! 

No  priest  am  I,  with  rigid  rule, 
Tliy  merits  to  arraign ; 

No  dunce  untauixht  in  sorrow's  school, 
1  feel  for  others'  pain. 
An  humble  offering  on  thy  bier, 
I  drop  a  sympathetic  tear ! 

Life's  toils  are  mercifully  brief; 
Death  gives  the  woe-worn  heart  relief; 
When  hope  is  fled,  'tis  bliss  to  die — 
Griefs  ending  with  a  single  sigh. 
Delusive  love  dissolves  the  heart. 
Where  vivid  passions  glow ; 


The  foult  was  nature's — thine  the  smart ; 
I  well  can  feel  thy  woe ; 
Sweet  victim  may'st  thou  through  heaven's  skies, 
A  kindred  spirit  recognize. 


TO   HENRY   GRATTAN: 

"THE  MAN  WHO  LED  THE  VAN  OF  IRISH  VOLUNTEERS." 

The  gen'rous  sons  of  Erin,  in  manly  virtue  bold. 

With  hearts  and  hands  preparing  our  country  to 
uphold, 

Tho'  cruel  knaves  and  bigot  slaves  disturbed  our 
isle  some  years. 

Now  hail  the  man  who  led  the  van  of  Irish  Volun- 
teers. 

Ju.st  thirty  years  are  ending  since  first  his  glorious 
aid. 

Our  sacred  rights  defending,  struck  shackles  from 
our  trade ; 

To  serve  us  still,  with  might  and  skill,  the  vet'ran 
now  appears, 

That  gallant  man  who  led  the  van  of  Irish  Volun- 
teers. 

He  sows  no  vile  dissensions ;  good-will  to  all  he 
bears ; 

He  knows  no  vain  pretensions,  no  paltry  fears  or 
cares ; 

To  Erin's  and  to  Britain's  sons,  his  worth  his  name 
endears ; 

They  love  the  man  who  led  the  van  of  Irish  Volun- 
teers. 

Oppos'd  by  hirelings  sordid,  he  broke  oppression's 
chain, 

On  statute-books  recorded,  his  patriot  acts  remain; 

The  equipoise  his  mind  employs  of  Commons, 
King,  and  Peers, 

The  upright  man  who  led  the  van  of  Irish  Volun- 
teers. 

A  British  constitution  (to  Erin  ever  true), 

In  spite  of  state  pollution,  he  gained  in  "Eighty- 
two;" 

"He  watched  it  in  its  cradle,  and  bedew'd  its  hearse 
with  tears :" 

This  gallant  man  who  led  the  van  of  Irish  Volun- 
teers. • 

While  other  nations  tremble,  by  proud  oppressors 
gall'd. 

On  hustings  we'll  assemble,  by  Erin's  welfare 
call'd ; 

Our  Grattan,  there  we'll  meet  him,  and  greet  him 
with  three  cheers ; 

The  gallant  man  who  led  the  van  of  Irish  Volun- 
teers. 


ROBERT   EMMET. 


KITTY   OF   COLEKAINE.' 

As  beautiful  Kitty  one  morning  was  tripping 

With  a  pitcher  of  milk  from  the  fair  of  Coleraine, 
When  she  saw  me  she  stumbled,  the  pitcher  down 
tumbled, 
And   all   the  sweet   butter -milk   watered   the 
plain. 
Oh!  what  shall  I  do  now?  'twas  looking  at  you, 
now ; 
Sure,  sure,  such  a  pitcher  I'll  ne'er  meet  again; 


'Twas  the  pride  of  my  dairy!  0  Barney  M'Cleary, 
You're  sent  as  a  plague  to  the  girls  of  Coleraine! 

I  sat  down  beside  her,  ^nd  gently  did  chide  her. 

That  such  a  misfortune  should  give  her  such 
pain; 
A  kiss  then  I  gave  her,  and,  ere  I  did  leave  her, 

She  vowed  for  such  pleasure  she'd  break  it  again. 
'Twas  liay- making  .season — I  can't  tell  the  reason — 

Mi.sfortunes  will  never  come  single,  'tis  plain; 
For  very  .soon  after  poor  Kitty's  disaster 

The  devil  a  pitcher  was  whole  in  Coleraine. 


ROBERT     EMMET. 


Born  1778  —  Died  1803. 


[The  subject  of  this  brief  notice  was  the 
youngest  of  the  three  talented  sons  of  Di-. 
Emmet,  a  physician  in  Cork  and  afterwards 
in  Dublin,  well  known  for  his  extreme  i:)olit- 
ical  views,  which  his  sons  seem  more  or  less 
to  have  inherited.  Robert  was  born  in  Cork 
on  the  4th  of  March,  1778.  Like  his  brothers 
Temple  and  Thomas  Addis,  he  was  originally 
intended  for  the  bar,  and  with  that  view 
entered  Trinity  College.  At  the  time  the 
country  was  in  an  agitated  condition:  the 
Society  of  United  Irishmen  were  forming 
themselves,  and  secretly  meditating  action 
against  the  government.  Into  this  movement 
young  Emmet  heartily  entered,  and  his 
speeches  at  the  debating  society  of  the  col- 
lege plainly  showed  that  his  views  were  demo- 
cratic in  the  extreme.  In  one  of  these  speeches, 
quoted  by  Moore,  he  says : — "  When  a  people 
advancing  rapidly  in  knowledge  and  power 
perceive  at  last  how  far  their  government  is 
lagging  behind  them,  what  then,  I  ask,  is  to 
be  done  in  such  a  case  i  What  but  to  pull  the 
government  up  to  the  people  ? "  Such  language 
could  not  pass  unnoticed  at  such  a  time,  and 
an  examination  of  the  students  was  instituted 
by  the  college  authorities.  The  result  was  that 
twenty  of  their  number,  including  Emmet, 
were  expelled.  This  took  place  in  1798,  when 
he  was  twenty  years  of  age. 

He  left  Ireland  at  once,  and  took  up  his  abode 
for  a  time  with  his  brother  at  Fort  George. 


1  Generally  said  to  be  anonymous,  though  there  is  good 
reason  to  believe  Lysaght  to  be  the  author,  not  only  from 
the  period  of  its  circulation,  but  from  the  sly  wit  and 
humorous  turn  of  the  catastrophe,  resembling  more 
closely  in  style  the  productions  of  pleasant  rollicking 
Ned  Lysaght  than  those  of  any  of  his  contemporaries. 


Thence  he  proceeded  through  Spain,  Holland, 
and  Switzerland,  and  visited  Paris,  where  he 
became  the  confidant  of  the  Jacobins,  and  the 
centre  of  a  select  circle  of  exiles,  who  united 
Irish  patriotism  with  French  republicanism. 

Buoyed  up  with  promises  of  assistance  from 
France,  Emmet  once  more  returned  to  Ireland 
and  did  all  in  his  power  to  organize  an  insur- 
rection. His  ])atriotism  was  not  only  measured 
by  words  but  by  deeds.  The  death  of  his 
father  had  put  him  in  possession  of  stock  to  the 
amount  of  £1500.  This  he  converted  into  cash, 
and  taking  a  house  in  Patrick  Street,  Dublin, 
he  had  pikes,  rockets,  and  hand-grenades  made 
and  stored  there  in  great  quantities.  An  ex- 
plosion occurred  which  destroyed  a  portion  of 
the  house,  killing  one  man  and  injuring  others; 
but  Emmet,  instead  of  being  discouraged  by  this 
disaster,  only  redoubled  his  care  and  resided 
entirely  on  the  jn-emises.  At  this  time  he  wrote: 
— "  I  have  little  time  to  look  at  the  thousand 
difficulties  which  stand  between  me  and  the 
completion  of  my  wishes.  That  these  difficulties 
will  disappear  I  have  an  ardent,  and,  I  trust, 
rational  hope.  But  if  it  is  not  to  be  the  case, 
I  thank  God  for  having  gifted  me  with  a 
sanguine  disposition.  To  that  disposition  I 
run  from  reflection:  and  if  my  hopes  are  witli- 
out  foundation — if  a  precipice  is  opened  under 
my  feet,  from  whicli  duty  will  not  suffer  me 
to  ran  back — I  am  grateful  for  that  sanguine 
disposition  which  leads  me  to  the  brink  and 
throwT5  me  down,  while  my  eyes  are  still  raised 
to  those  visions  of  happiness  which  my  fancy 
has  formed  in  the  air." 

We  need  not  enter  into  details  of  the  un- 
fortunate attempt  at  insurrection.  Suffice  it  to 
say  that  on  July  23,  1803,  the  day  appointed 


270 


ROBERT   EMMET. 


for  the  rising,  not  more  thau  a  hundred  insur- 
gents assembled,  and  they  were  at  once  joined 
by  a  noisy  rabble,  who,  in  passing  tkrough  the 
streets  for  the  point  of  attack,  the  castle,  shot 
dead  one  Colonel  Brown,  and  rushed  upon  a 
carriage  containing  Lord  Kilwarden  the  Lord 
Chief-justice  of  Ireland,  his  daughter,  and  the 
Rev.  ]VIi-.  Wolfe.  Lord  Kilwarden  and  Mr. 
Wolfe  were  savagely  murdered,  but  Emmet, 
on  hearing  of  the  outrage,  rushed  from  the 
head  of  his  party  and  bore  the  lady  to  an  ad- 
joining house  for  safety.  The  leaders  now  lost 
all  control  over  the  mob,  and  in  utter  disgust 
Emmet  and  his  companions  left  them,  and  fled 
to  the  Wicklow  Hills.  Thus  this  so  carefully 
planned  insurrection,  which  was  to  have  gained 
so  much  for  Ireland,  was  all  over  in  a  few 
hours. 

The  friends  of  Emmet  did  their  best  to  aid 
in  his  escape,  and  all  preparations  were  made, 
but  love  got  the  better  of  prudence,  and  he 
refused  to  quit  Ireland  without  first  seeing 
and  bidding  farewell  to  Miss  Sarah  Curran, 
daughter  of  John  Phil2:)ot  Curran,  to  whom 
he  was  betrothed.  The  delay  was  fatal,  and 
through  information  I'eceived  he  was  arrested 
at  Harold's  Cross  by  Major  Sirr.  Only  the 
pathetic  lines  of  Moore  can  depict  the  feelings 
of  Miss  Curran  on  this  event : — 

"  Oh  !  what  was  love  made  for,  if  'tis  not  the  same 
Thro'  joy  and  thro'  torments,  thro'  glory  and  shame? 
I  know  not,  I  ask  not,  if  guilt's  in  that  heart, 
I  but  know  that  I  love  thee  whatever  thou  art ! 

"Thou  hast  called  me  thy  angel  in  moments  of  bliss, 
Still  thy  angel  I'll  be  'mid  the  horrors  of  this, — 
Thro'  the  furnace,  unshrinking,  thy  steps  to  pursue, 
And  shield  thee,  and  save  thee,  or  perish  there  too." 

While  in  prison,  Emmet  tried  to  induce  his 
jailer  by  a  gift  of  money  to  deliver  a  letter  to 
Miss  Curran,  lint  the  official  gave  it  to  the 
attorney-general  instead.  On  hearing  of  this, 
he  oifered  to  the  authorities  to  plead  guilty 
and  speak  no  word  of  defence  if  they  would 
permit  his  letter  to  reach  its  intended  destina- 
tion, but  tlie  offer  was  refused.  He  was  brought 
to  trial  for  high  treason  in  September,  and 
sentenced  to  be  executed,  a  sentence  which  was 
immediately  carried  out.  At  the  last  scene  he 
proved  himself  no  coward,  for,  when  the  exe- 
cutioner severed  the  head  from  the  body,  it 
is  said  the  blood  flowed  freely  from  it,  showing 
that  no  craven  fear  had  sent  it  to  the  heart, 
and  the  face,  when  held  up  with  the  words 
"This  is  the  liead  of  a  traitor !"  wore  a  sweet 
and  [)eaceful  expression. 


Thomas  Moore,  who  was  the  intimate  friend 

of  Emmet  at  college,  says  of  him  in  his  Life  of 
Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald,  "Were  I  to  number 
the  men  among  all  I  have  ever  known  who 
appeared  to  me  to  combine  in  the  greatest 
degree  pure  moral  worth  w-ith  intellectual 
power,  I  should  among  the  highest  of  the  few 
place  Robert  Emmet." 

Thomas  Addis,  Dr.  Emmet's  second  son, 
became  involved  in  the  proceedings  of  the 
United  Irishmen  in  1796,  and  aft«r  suff'ering 
imprisonment  was  exiled  from  his  native  land. 
He  settled  in  the  United  States  in  1804,  rose 
high  in  his  profession,  and  w^as  for  a  time 
attorney-general  for  the  state  of  New  York. 
In  1807  he  published,  in  conjunction  with 
another  expatriated  Irishman,  Dr.  William 
James  MacNeven,  Pieces  of  Irish  History 
illustrative  of  the  Condition  of  the  Catholics  of 
Ireland.  Mr.  Emmet  died  in  New  York  in 
1827.] 


LAST   SPEECH   OF   ROBERT   EMMET. 

My  Lords, — I  am  asked  what  have  I  to 
say  why  sentence  of  death  should  not  be  pro- 
nounced on  me,  according  to  law.  I  have  no- 
thing to  say  that  can  alter  your  i^redetermina- 
tion,  nor  that  it  will  become  me  to  say,  with  any 
view  to  the  mitigation  of  that  sentence  which 
you  are  to  pronounce,  and  I  must  abide  by. 
But  I  have  that  to  say  which  interests  me 
more  than  life,  and  which  you  have  laboured 
to  destroy.  I  have  much  to  say  why  my 
reputation  should  be  rescued  from  the  load  of 
false  accusation  and  calumny  which  has  been 
cast  upon  it.  I  do  not  imagine  that,  seated 
where  you  are,  your  mind  can  be  so  free  from 
prejudice  as  to  receive  the  least  impression 
from  what  I  am  going  to  utter.  I  have  no 
hopes  that  I  can  anchor  my  character  in  the 
breast  of  a  court  constituted  and  trammelled 
as  this  is.  I  only  wish,  and  that  is  the  utmost 
that  I  expect,  that  your  lordships  may  suffer 
it  to  float  down  your  memories  untainted  by 
the  foul  breath  of  jirejudice,  until  it  finds  some 
more  hospitable  harbour  to  shelter  it  from  the 
storms  by  which  it  is  buflfeted.  Wa.s  I  only 
to  suff"er  death,  after  being  adjudged  guilty  by 
your  tribunal,  I  should  bow  in  silence,  and 
meet  the  fate  that  awaits  me  witliout  a  mur- 
mur; but  the  sentence  of  the  law  wlu'ch  deli- 
vers my  body  to  the  executioner  will,  thi-ough 
the  ministry  of  tlie  law,  labour  in  its  own 
vindication  to  consign  my  character  to  obloquy; 


ROBERT  EMMET. 


271 


for  there  must  be  guilt  somewhere,  whetlier 
in  the  sentence  of  the  court  or  in  the  catas- 
trophe time  must  determine.  A  man  in  my 
situation  lias  not  only  to  encounter  the  diffi- 
culties of  fortune,  and  the  force  of  j)ower  over 
minds  which  it  has  corrupted  or  subjugated, 
but  the  difficulties  of  established  prejudice. 
The  man  dies,  but  his  memory  lives.  That 
mine  may  not  perish,  that  it  may  live  in  the 
respect  of  my  countrymen,  I  seize  upon  this 
opportunity  to  vindicate  myself  from  some  of 
the  charges  alleged  against  me.  When  my 
spirit  shall  be  wafted  to  a  more  friendly  port 
— when  my  shade  shall  have  joined  the  bands 
of  those  martyred  hei'oes  who  have  shed  their 
blood  on  the  scaffold  and  in  the  field  in  the 
defence  of  their  country  and  of  virtue,  this  is 
my  hope — I  wish  that  my  memory  and  name 
may  animate  those  who  survive  me,  while  I 
look  down  with  complacency  on  the  destruction 
of  that  perfidious  government  which  upholds 
its  domination  by  blasphemy  of  the  Most 
High — which  displays  its  power  over  man,  as 
over  the  beasts  of  the  forest — which  sets  man 
upon  his  brother,  and  lifts  his  hand,  in  the 
name  of  God,  against  the  throat  of  his  fellow 
who  believes  or  doubts  a  little  more  or  a  little 
less  than  the  government  standard — a  govern- 
ment which  is  steeled  to  barbai'ity  by  the  cries 
of  the  orphans  and  the  tears  of  the  widows 
it  has  made. 

[Here  Lord  Norbury  interrupted  Mr.  Em- 
met, saying — "that  the  mean  and  wicked 
enthusiasts  who  felt  as  he  did,  were  not  equal 
to  the  accomplishment  of  their  wild  designs."] 

I  appeal  to  the  immactdate  God — I  swear 
by  the  Throne  of  Heaven,  before  which  I 
must  shortly  appear — by  the  blood  of  the 
murdered  patriots  who  have  gone  before  me 
— that  my  conduct  has  been,  through  all  this 
peril,  and  tlu-ough  all  my  purposes,  governed 
only  by  the  conviction  which  I  have  uttered, 
and  by  no  other  view  than  that  of  the  eman- 
cipation of  my  country  from  the  superinhuman 
oppression  under  which  she  has  so  long  and 
too  patiently  travailed;  and  I  confidently 
hope  that,  wild  and  chimerical  as  it  may 
appear,  there  is  still  union  and  strength  in 
Ireland  to  accomplish  this  noblest  of  enter- 
prises. Of  this  I  speak  with  confidence,  of 
intimate  knowledge,  and  with  the  consolation 
that  appertains  to  that  confidence.  Think 
not,  my  lords,  I  say  this  for  the  i)etty  gratifi- 
cation of  giving  you  a  transitory  uneasiness. 
A  man  who  never  yet  raised  his  voice  to  assert 
a  lie,  will  not  hazard  his  character  with  pos- 
terity by  asserting  a  falsehood  on  a  subject  so 


important  to  his  country,  and  on  an  occasion 
like  this.  Yes,  my  lords,  a  man  who  docs  not 
wish  to  have  his  epitaph  written  until  his 
country  is  liberated,  will  not  leave  a  weajwn 
in  the  power  of  envy,  or  a  pretence  to  impeach 
the  probity  which  he  means  to  preserve,  even 
in  the  grave  to  which  tyranny  consigns  him. 

[Here  he  was  interrujjted.  Lord  Norbury 
said  he  did  not  sit  there  to  hear  treason.] 

I  have  always  underatood  it  to  be  the 
duty  of  a  judge,  when  a  prLsoner  has  been 
convicted,  to  pronounce  the  sentence  of  the 
law.  I  have  also  understood  that  judges  some- 
times think  it  their  duty  to  hear  with  patience 
and  to  speak  with  humanity;  to  exhort  the 
victim  of  the  laws,  and  to  offer,  with  tender 
benignity,  their  opinions  of  the  motives  by 
which  he  was  actuated  in  the  crime  of  which 
he  was  adjudged  guilty.  That  a  judge  has 
thought  it  his  duty  so  to  have  done,  I  have  no 
doubt ;  but  where  is  the  boasted  freedom  of 
your  institutions — where  is  the  vaunted  im- 
partiality, clemency,  and  mildness  of  your 
courts  of  justice,  if  an  unfortunate  prisoner, 
whom  your  policy,  and  not  justice,  is  about  to 
deliver  into  the  hands  of  the  executioner,  is 
not  suffered  to  explain  his  motives  sincerely 
and  truly,  and  to  vindicate  the  i)rinciples  by 
which  he  was  actuated  ?  My  lords,  it  may  be 
a  part  of  the  system  of  angry  justice  to  bow 
a  man's  mind  by  humiliation  to  the  purposed 
ignominy  of  the  scaffold;  but  worse  to  me 
than  the  piirposed  shame,  or  the  scaffold's 
terrors,  would  be  the  shame  of  such  foul  and 
unfounded  imputations  as  have  been  laid 
against  me  in  this  court.  You,  my  lord,  are 
a  judge;  I  am  the  supposed  culprit.  I  am  a 
man ;  you  are  a  man  also.  By  a  revolution  of 
power  we  might  change  places,  though  we 
never  could  change  charactei-s.  If  I  st^ind  at 
the  bar  of  this  court,  and  dare  not  vindicate 
my  character,  what  a  farce  is  youi-  justice! 
If  I  stand  at  this  bar  and  dare  not  vindicate 
my  chai-acter,  how  dare  you  calumniate  it? 
Does  the  sentence  of  death,  which  your  unhal- 
lowed policy  inflicts  on  ray  body,  condemn 
my  tongue  to  silence  and  my  reputation  to 
reproach  ?  Your  executioner  may  abridge  the 
period  of  my  existonce ;  but  while  I  exist  I 
shall  not  forbear  to  vindicate  my  character 
and  motives  from  your  aspersions ;  and,  ;\s  a 
man  to  whom  fame  is  dearer  than  life,  I  will 
make  the  last  use  of  that  life  in  doing  justice 
to  that  reputation  which  is  to  live  after  me, 
and  which  is  the  only  legacy  I  can  leave  to 
those  I  honour  and  love,  and  for  whom  I  am 
proud  to  perish.     As  men,  my  lords,  we  must 


272 


ROBERT   EMMET. 


appear  on  the  grea,t  day  at  one  common  tri- 
bunal ;  and  it  will  then  remain  for  the  Searcher 
of  all  hearts  to  show  a  collective  universe  who 
was  engaged  in  the  most  virtuous  actions  or 
swayed  by  the  purest  motives. 

I  am  charged  with  being  an  emissary  of 
France.  An  emissary  of  France !  and  for 
what  end  ?  It  is  alleged  tliat  I  wished  to  sell 
the  independence  of  my  country;  and  for  what 
end?  Was  this  the  object  of  my  ambition? 
And  is  this  the  mode  by  which  a  tribunal  of 
justice  reconciles  contradiction?  No;  I  am 
no  emissary ;  and  my  ambition  was  to  hold  a 
place  among  the  deliverers  of  my  country,  not 
in  power  nor  in  profit,  but  in  the  glory  of  the 
achievement.  Sell  my  country's  independence 
to  France !  and  for  what?  Was  it  a  change 
of  masters?  No,  but  for  my  ambition.  Oh, 
my  country,  was  it  personal  ambition  that 
could  influence  me?  Had  it  been  the  soul  of 
my  actions,  could  I  not,  by  my  education  and 
fortune,  by  the  rank  and  consideration  of  my 
family,  have  placed  myself  amongst  the 
proudest  of  your  oppressors  ?  My  Country  was 
my  idol.  To  it  I  sacrificed  every  selfish,  every 
endearing  sentiment ;  and  for  it  I  now  offer 
up  myself,  O  God  !  No,  my  lords ;  I  acted  as 
an  Irishman,  determined  on  delivering  my 
country  from  the  yoke  of  a  foreign  and  unre- 
lenting tyranny,  and  the  more  galling  yoke  of 
a  domestic  faction,  which  is  its  joint  partner 
and  perpetrator  in  the  iJatricide, — from  the 
ignominy  existing  with  an  exterior  of  splen- 
dour and  a  conscious  depravity.  It  was  the 
wish  of  my  heart  to  extricate  my  country 
from  this  doubly  rivetted  despotism — I  wished 
to  place  her  independence  beyond  the  reach 
of  any  power  on  earth.  I  wished  to  exalt 
her  to  that  proud  station  in  the  world.  Con- 
nection with  France  was  indeed  intended, 
but  only  as  far  as  mutual  interest  would 
sanction  or  require.  Were  the  French  to 
assume  any  authority  inconsistent  with  the 
purest  independence,  it  would  be  a  signal  for 
their  destruction.  We  sought  their  aid — and 
we  sought  it  as  we  had  assurance  we  shoxild 
obtain  it — as  auxiliaries  in  war  and  allies  in 
peace.  Were  the  French  to  come  as  invaders 
or  enemies,  uninvited  by  the  wishes  of  the 
people,  I  should  oppose  them  to  the  utmost  of 
my  strength.  Yes!  my  countrymen,  I  should 
advise  you  to  meet  them  upon  the  beach  with 
a  sword  in  one  hand  and  a  torch  in  the  other. 
I  would  meet  them  with  all  the  destructive 
fury  of  war.  I  would  animate  my  country- 
men to  immolate  them  in  their  boats,  before 


they  had  contaminated  the  soil  of  my  countiy. 
If  they  succeeded  in  landing,  and  if  forced  to 
retire  before  superior  discipline,  I  would  dis- 
pute every  inch  of  ground,  burn  every  blade 
of  grass,  and  the  last  entrenchment  of  liberty 
should  be  my  grave.  What  I  could  not  do 
myself,  if  I  should  fall,  I  should  leave  as  a  last 
charge  to  my  countrymen  to  accomplish ;  be- 
cause I  should  feel  conscious  that  life,  any 
more  than  death,  is  unprofitable  when  a 
foreign  nation  holds  my  country  in  subjection. 
But  it  was  not  as  an  enemy  that  the  succours 
of  France  were  to  land.  I  looked,  indeed,  for 
the  assistance  of  France ;  but  I  wished  to 
prove  to  France  and  to  the  world  that  Irish- 
men deserved  to  be  assisted — that  they  were 
indignant  at  slaveiy,  and  ready  to  assert  the 
independence  and  liberty  of  their  country;  I 
wished  to  procure  for  my  country  the  guar- 
antee which  Washington  procured  for  America 
— to  procure  an  aid  which,  by  its  example, 
would  be  as  important  as  its  valour ;  discip- 
lined, gallant,  pregnant  with  science  and  ex- 
perience ;  that  of  a  people  who  would  perceive 
the  good  and  polish  the  rough  points  of 
our  char-acter.  They  would  come  to  us  as 
strangers,  and  leave  us  as  friends,  after  shar- 
ing in  our  perils  and  elevating  our  destiny. 
These  were  my  objects ;  not  to  receive  new 
taskmasters,  but  to  expel  old  tyrants.  It  was 
for  these  ends  I  sought  aid  from  France ;  be- 
cause France,  even  as  an  enemy,  could  not  be 
more  implacable  than  the  enemy  already  in 
the  bosom  of  my  country. 

I  have  been  charged  with  that  importance 
in  the  emancipation  of  my  country  as  to  be 
considered  the  keystone  of  the  combination  of 
Irishmen;  or,  as  your  lordship  expressed  it, 
"the  life  and  blood  of  the  conspiracy."  You 
do  me  honour  overmuch ;  you  have  given  to 
the  subaltern  all  the  credit  of  a  superior. 
There  are  men  engaged  in  this  conspiracy  who 
are  not  only  superior  to  me,  but  even  to  yoixr 
own  conceptions  of  yourself,  my  lord — men 
before  the  splendour  of  whose  genius  and 
virtues  I  should  bow  with  respectful  defer- 
ence, and  who  would  think  themselves  dis- 
graced by  shaking  your  blood-stained  hand. 

What,  my  lord,  shall  you  tell  me,  on  the 
passage  to  the  scaffold,  which  that  tyranny 
(of  which  you  are  only  the  intermediary  exe- 
cutioner) has  erected  for  my  murder,  that  I 
am  accountable  for  all  the  blood  that  has  and 
will  be  shed  in  this  struggle  of  the  oj)pressed 
against  the  oppressor — shall  you  tell  me  this, 
and  must  I  be  so  very  a  slave  as  not  to  repel 
it  ?     I  do  not  fear  to  approach  the  Omnipotent 


ROBERT  EMMET. 


273 


Judge  to  answer  for  the  conduct  of  my  wliole 
life ;  and  am  I  to  be  appalled  and  falsified  by 
a  mere  remnant  of  mortality  here  ?  By  you, 
too,  although  if  it  were  possible  to  collect  all 
the  innocent  blood  that  you  have  shed  in  your 
unhallowed  ministry  in  one  great  reservoir 
your  lordship  might  swim  in  it. 

Let  no  man  dare,  when  I  am  dead,  to  charge 
me  with  dishonour;  let  no  man  attaint  my 
memory,  by  believing  that  I  coukl  have  en- 
gaged in  any  cause  but  that  of  my  country's 
liberty  and  independence;  or  that  I  could  have 
become  the  pliant  minion  of  power,  iu  the 
oppression  and  misery  of  my  country.  The 
proclamation  of  the  provisional  government 
speaks  for  our  views;  no  inference  can  be  tor- 
tured from  it  to  countenance  barbarity  or  de- 
basement at  home,  or  subjection,  humiliation, 
or  treachery  from  abroad.  I  would  not  have 
submitted  to  a  foreign  oppressor,  for  the  same 
reason  that  I  would  resist  the  foreign  and 
domestic  oppressor.  In  the  dignity  of  freedom 
I  would  have  fought  upon  the  threshold  of 
my  country,  and  its  enemy  should  enter  only 
by  passing  over  my  lifeless  corpse.  And  am 
I,  who  lived  but  for  my  country,  and  who 
have  subjected  myself  to  the  dangers  of  tlie 
jealous  and  watchful  oppi'essor  and  the  bon- 
dage of  the  grave,  only  to  give  my  country- 
men their  rights  and  my  country  her  inde- 
pendence, am  I  to  be  loaded  with  cjilumny, 
and  not  suffered  to  resent  it  1  No ;  God  for- 
bid! 

[Here  Lord  Norbury  told  Mr.  Emmet  that 
his  sentiments  and  language  disgraced  his 
family  and  his  education,  but  more  particularly 
his  father  Dr.  Emmet,  who  was  a  man,  if 
alive,  that  would  not  countenance  such  opin- 
ions.    To  which  Mr.  Emmet  replied : — ] 

If  the  spirits  of  the  illustrious  dead  par- 
ticipate in  the  concerns  and  cares  of  those  who 
were  dear  to  them  in  this  transitory  life,  oh  ! 
ever  dear  and  venerated  shade  of  my  departed 
father,  look  down  with  scrutiny  upon  the  con- 
duct of  your  suffering  son,  and  see  if  I  have 
even  for  a  moment  deviated  from  those  prin- 
ciples of  morality  and  patriotism  which  it  was 
your  care  to  instil  into  my  youthful  mind,  and 
for  which  I  am  now  about  to  offer  up  my  life. 
My  lords,  you  are  impatient  for  the  sacrifice. 
The  blood  which  you  seek  is  not  congealed 
by  the  artificial  terrors  wliich  surround  your 
victim — it  circulates  warmly  and  unruffled 
through  the  channels  which  God  created  for 
noble  purposes,  but  which  you  are  now  bent 
to  destroy,  for  purposes  so  grievous  that  they 
cry  to  heaven.     Be  yet  patient  !     I  have  but 

VOL.  I. 


a  few  more  words  to  say — I  am  going  to  my 
cold  and  silent  grave — my  lamp  of  life  is  nearly 
extinguished — my  race  is  run — thegraveopens 
to  receive  me,  and  I  sink  int<j  its  bosom.  I 
have  but  one  request  to  make  at  my  dej)arture 
from  this  world,  it  Ls — the  charity  of  its  silence. 
Let  no  man  write  my  ejiiUiph;  for  a.s  no  man, 
who  knows  my  motives,  dare  now  vindicate 
them,  let  not  prejudice  or  ignorance  asperse 
them.  Let  them  rest  in  obscurity  and  peace  ! 
Let  my  memory  be  left  in  oblivion,  and  my 
tomb  remain  uninscribed,  until  other  times 
and  other  men  can  do  justice  to  my  character. 
When  my  country  tiikes  her  place  among  the 
nations  of  the  earth,  t/ieii,  and  not  till  then,  let 
my  epitaph  be  written.     I  have  done. 


LINES  BY  ROBERT  EMMET, 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  BURTING-GROUND  OF  ARBOUR  HIIX, 
IN  DUBLIN,  WHERE  THE  BODIES  OF  INbUUGENTS 
SHOT   IN    1798   WERE   INTERRED. 

No  rising  column  marks  this  spot, 

Where  many  a  victim  lies; 
But  oh!  the  blood  which  here  has  streamed, 

To  Heaven  for  justice  cries. 

It  claims  it  on  the  oppressor's  head, 

Who  joys  in  human  woe, 
Who  drinks  the  tears  by  misery  shed, 

And  mocks  them  as  they  flow. 

It  claims  it  on  the  callous  judge, 
Whose  hands  in  blood  are  dyed, 

Who  arms  injustice  with  the  sword, 
The  balance  throws  aside. 

It  claims  it  for  his  ruined  isle, 
Her  wretched  children's  grave; 

Where  withered  Freedom  droops  her  head. 
And  man  exists — a  slave. 

0  sacred  Justice!  free  this  land 

From  tyranny  abhorred; 
Resume  thy  balance  and  thy  seat^- 

Resume — but  sheathe  thy  sword. 

No  retribution  should  we  seek- 
Too  long  has  horror  reigned; 

By  mercy  marked  may  freedom  rise, 
By  cruelty  unstained. 

Nor  shall  a  tyrant's  ashes  mix 
With  those  our  martyred  dead; 

This  is  the  place  where  Erin's  sons 
In  Erin's  cause  have  bled. 

18 


274 


THE   HON    GEORGE   OGLE. 


And  those  who  here  are  laid  at  rest, 
Oh  !  hallowed  be  each  name ; 

Their  memories  are  for  ever  blest — 
Consigned  to  endless  fame. 

Unconsecrated  is  this  ground, 
Unblest  by  holy  hands ; 


No  bell  here  tolls  its  solemn  sound, 
No  monument  here  stands. 

But  here  the  patriot's  tears  are  shed. 
The  poor  man's  blessing  given ; 

These  consecrate  the  virtuous  dead. 
These  waft  their  fame  to  heaven. 


THE     HON.    GEORGE    OGLE. 

Born  1739  — Died  1814. 


[Very  little  can  be  found  regarding  the 
early  life  of  this  favourite  song -writer, 
beyond  that  he  was  born  of  respectable 
parentage  in  "Wexford,  which  county  he 
afterwards  represented  in  the  Irish  House  of 
Commons. 

He  sat  for  the  city  of  Dublin  in  parliament 
in  1799,  and  is  still  remembered  as  having 
been  strongly  opposed  to  the  Union.  His 
death  took  place  in  1814.] 


THE   BANKS  OF   BANNA. 

Shepherds,  I  have  lost  my  love,  — 

Have  you  seen  my  Anna? 
Pride  of  every  shady  grove 

On  the  banks  of  Banna. 
I  for  her  my  home  forsook. 

Near  yon  misty  mountain. 
Left  my  flocks,  my  pipe,  my  crook, 

Greenwood  shade,  and  fountain. 

Never  shall  I  see  them  more 

Until  her  returning ; 
All  the  joys  of  life  are  o'er — 

Gladness  chang'd  to  mourning. 
Whither  is  my  charmer  flown? 

Shepherds,  tell  me  whither? 
Woe  is  me,  perhaps  she's  gone 

For  ever  and  for  ever ! 


BANISH   SORROW. 

Banish  sorrow,  griefs  a  folly. 

Thought,  unbend  thy  wrinkled  brow; 
Hence  dull  care  and  melancholy, 

.Mirth  and  wine  invite  us  now. 
Bacchus  empties  all  his  treasure ; 

Comus  gives  us  mirth  and  song ; 


Follow,  follow,  follow,  follow, 
Follow,  follow  pleasure — 
Let  us  join  the  jovial  throng. 

Youth  soon  flies,  'tis  but  a  season; 
Time  is  ever  on  the  wing; 

Let's  the  present  moment  seize  on; 

Who  knows  what  the  next  may  bring? 

All  our  days  by  mirth  we  measure; 
Other  wisdom  we  despise; 

Follow,  follow,  follow,  follow. 
Follow,  follow  pleasure- 
To  be  happy's  to  be  wise. 

Why  should  therefore  care  perplex  us? 

Why  should  we  not  merry  be? 
While  we're  here,  there's  nought  to  vex  us, 

Drinking  sets  from  cares  all  free; 
Let's  have  drinking  without  measure ; 

Let's  have  mirth  while  time  we  have; 
Follow,  follow,  follow,  follow. 

Follow,  follow  pleasure — 

There's  no  drinking  in  the  grave. 


MOLLY   ASTORE. 

As  down  by  Banna's  banks  I  strayed, 

One  evening  in  May, 
The  little  birds,  in  blithest  notes 

Made  vocal  ev'ry  spray ; 
They  sung  their  little  notes  of  love, 

They  sung  them  o'er  and  o'er. 
Ah,  gra-ma-chi-ee,  ma  colleen  oge, 

My  Molly  astore. 

The  daisy  pied,  and  all  the  sweets 

The  dawn  of  Nature  yields — 
The  primrose  pale,  and  vi'let  blue. 

Lay  scattered  o'er  the  fields; 
Such  fragrance  in  the  bosom  lies 

Of  her  whom  I  adore. 
Ah,  gra-ma-cliree,  ma  colleen  oge, 

My  Jlolly  astore. 


RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 


275 


I  laid  nie  down  upon  a  bank, 

Bewailing  my  sad  fate, 
That  doomed  me  thus  the  slave  of  love, 

And  cruel  Molly's  hate; 
How  can  she  break  the  honest  heart 

That  wears  her  in  its  core? 
Ah,  <ira-m(i-chree,  ma  colic  n  oye, 

My  Molly  astore. 

You  said  you  loved  me,  Molly  dear! 

Ah!  why  did  I  believe? 
Yet  who  could  think  such  tender  words 

Were  meant  but  to  deceive? 
That  Jove  was  all  I  asked  on  earth — 

Nay,  Heaven  could  give  no  more. 
All,  gra-ma-chree,  ma  colleen  o<je, 

My  Molly  astore. 

Oh !  had  I  all  the  flocks  that  graze 

On  yonder  yellow  hill; 
Or  lowed  for  me  the  numerous  herds 

That  yon  green  pasture  fill; 


With  her  I  love  I'd  gladly  share 

My  kinc  and  fleecy  store. 
All,  gra-mn-chree,  ma  colleen  O'jf, 

My  Molly  aMore. 

Two  turtle-doves  al)ovc  my  head 

Sat  courting  on  a  l)ougli, 
I  envied  them  their  happiness, 

To  see  them  bill  and  coo: 
Such  fondness  once  for  me  wa^i  shown, 

But  now,  alas!  'tis  o'er. 
All,  (jra-ma-chree,  ma  colleen  oge. 

My  Molly  astore. 

Tlien  fare  thee  well,  my  Molly  dear! 

Thy  loss  I  e'er  shall  moan. 
Whilst  life  remains  in  tliis  fond  heart, 

'Twill  beat  for  thee  alone; 
Though  thou  art  false,  may  Heaven  on  lliee 

Its  choicest  blessings  pour. 
Ah,  gra-ma-chree,  ma  colleen  oge, 

My  Molly  astore. 


KICHARD     BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN. 


Born  1751  —  Died  1816. 


[This  distinguished  statesman  and  dramatist, 
the  greatest  scion  of  a  gifted  family,  was  born 
in  Dublin  in  1751.  In  his  seventh  year  he  was 
sent  to  the  school  kept  by  Samuel  Wliyte, 
who  was  also  the  preceptor  of  Thomas  Moore. 
In  this  school  he  remained  but  a  short  time, 
and  left  it  witli  the  character  of  a  dunce.  His 
parents  removing  to  England,  he  was  next 
sent  to  Harrow,  where  he  is  said  to  have  dis- 
played an  ajjtness  for  school-boy  pranks.  He 
had  made  fair  progress  in  his  studies,  however, 
when  in  his  eighteenth  year  he  was  taken 
home  by  his  father,  and  by  him  was  in  a  short 
time  perfected  in  grammar  and  what  may  be 
called  school  oratory. 

The  family  soon  after  moved  to  Bath,  and 
here  young  Sheridan  had  an  opportunity  of 
studying  human  nature  in  many  of  its  peculi- 
arities and  weaknesses.  This  opportunity  he 
embraced  with  the  eye  of  a  wit  and  philo- 
sopher, and  it  was  in  Bath  that  he  acquired 
that  intimate  knowledge  of  human  vices  and 
frailties  which  afterwards  added  so  much  to 
his  fame.  In  this  city,  too,  he  obtained  the 
one  great  blessing  of  life — a  faithful  wife,  and 
that  after  a  romantic  courtship.  The  lady 
was  a  daughter  of  Mr.  Linley,  a  celebrated 
composer,  and  was  herself  a  vocalist  of  the 


first  order,  and  possessed  of  great  personal 
charms.  Though  modest  and  retiring,  she 
had  a  crowd  of  admirers,  and  Slieriilan's  pas- 
sionate courtshii^  of  her  wa.s  in  secret.  Al- 
ready IVIi-.  Long,  an  elderly  Wiltshire  gentle- 
man of  great  wealth,  had  ])roposed  for  her, 
and  been  accepted  by  her  father;  but  on  Miss 
Linley  telliug  him  the  real  state  of  the  oise 
he  generously  withdrew  his  suit,  and  took  upon 
himself  the  responsibility  of  breaking  the 
match.  For  this  Mr.  Linley  sued  him  and 
obtained  ^£3000.  Another  lover  of  Miss  Lin- 
ley's  was  a  pereon  named  Matthews,  who  pro- 
secuted his  suit  rather  rudely.  She  complaineil 
to  her  lover,  and  lie  remonstrated  with  Mat- 
thews to  no  effect.  To  escape  his  nuleness 
Miss  Linley  determined  to  leave  Bath,  and 
abandon  the  profession  which  subjected  licr  to 
.«uch  insults.  Her  idea  was  to  take  refuge 
in  a  convent  in  France,  and  thither  Sheridan 
started  with  her  and  a  female  comjjauion  as 
protector.  But  when  they  reached  London 
they  perceived  the  compromising  nature  of 
their  flight,  and  that  the  only  lemedy  w:is  im- 
mediate marriage,  wliioh  was  accordingly  per- 
formed privately.  Matthews,  however,  still 
continued  his  persecution,  now  in  the  form  of 
slandei-s  upon  Sheridan,  some  of  which  ap- 


276 


EICHAED   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN. 


peared  in  a  Bath  paper.  This  brought  about 
tirst  one,  and  then  a  second  duel,  iu  the  first 
of  which  Matthews  was  wounded ;  in  the 
second  both  fought  until  their  swords  were 
broken,  and  themselves  severely  wounded. 
This  desperate  tighting  caused  a  strong  sus- 
picion of  the  marriage  of  the  lovers  to  get 
abroad,  and  after  a  time  Mr.  Linley  consented 
to  the  match,  when  a  second  and  more  regular 
ceremony  was  performed  in  the  spring  of  1773. 

Sheridan  now  refused  any  longer  to  allow 
his  wife  to  continue  a  public  singer,  and,  as 
full  of  sentiment  as  the  silliest  young  couple, 
the  two  retired  to  a  cottage  at  East  Burnham. 
From  this  they  came  to  London  in  winter, 
and,  owing  to  his  talent  and  wit,  and  the 
manners  and  accomplishments  of  Mrs.  Sheri- 
dan, were  received  into  the  best  society.  A 
few  weeks  before  his  maiTiage  Sheridan  had 
been  entered  a  student  of  the  Middle  Temple, 
and  an  income  from  a  profession  woidd  have 
been  a  great  addition  to  the  happiness  of  the 
young  people,  but  the  close  application  and 
industry  requisite  for  success  as  a  la'wyer  were 
incompatible  with  his  volatile  disposition.  He 
therefore  applied  himself  to  dramatic  composi- 
tion, and  in  January,  1775,  The  Rivals  was 
produced.  It  was  coldly  received  on  the  first 
night,  but  Sheridan  at  once  saw  its  defects 
and  ti-immed  it  into  more  popular  shape.  The 
result  was  a  great  success,  and  the  play  at  once 
took  its  position  as  a  classic  and  stock  piece. 
In  the  same  year  he  produced  the  farce  St. 
Patrick's  Day,  and  soon  after  his  comic  opera 
of  The  Duenna  appeared  at  Covent  Garden, 
and  ran  for  ninety-five  nights.  But  notwith- 
standing his  success  as  a  dramatic  writer,  so 
great  was  his  extravagance  that  financial  em- 
barrassments had  already  begun  to  press  upon 
him,  and  while  his  country-house  was  filled 
with  lively  parties,  enjoying  his  hospitality  and 
his  wit,  the  dark  clouds  of  debt  hovered  over 
him,  and  he  was  becoming  the  prey  of  duns. 

In  this  year  also  (1775),  on  Garrick  retuing 
into  private  life,  Sheridan  arranged  with  him 
for  the  possession  of  Drury  Lane  Tlieatre. 
His  father-in-law  Mr.  Linley,  Dr.  Fordyce, 
and  two  other  friends  advanced  the  necessary 
funds  for  this,  and  Sheridan  entered  upon 
his  new  career  detennined  to  succeed.  But 
determination  to  succeed  and  actual  success 
are  different  things,  and  no  one  could  be 
worse  fitted  to  carry  on  a  great  financial  enter- 
prise such  as  Dnu-y  Lane.  On  opening  the 
house  under  its  new  management  Sheridan 
produced  A  Trip  to  Scarborough,  being  an 
alteration  of  Vanbrugli's  comedy  The  Relapse, 


but  it  proved  a  failure.  Nothing  daunted,  he 
soon  after  brought  out  The  School  for  Scandal, 
the  finest  comedy  in  the  English  language. 
This  proved  a  source  of  income  to  him 
all  through  his  life.  In  1778  he  made  a 
further  large  investment  in  the  property  of 
Drury  Lane,  a  considei-able  portion  of  it  hav- 
ing still  remained  in  the  hands  of  GaiTick's 
partner,  and  on  doing  so  he  appointed  his 
father  manager,  it  being  thought  that  the  old 
man's  experience  might  act  in  some  sort  as  a 
balance  to  the  rashness  of  the  young  one.  In 
1779,  the  year  of  Garrick's  death,  Sheridan 
wrote  some  verses  to  the  memory  of  hLs  friend, 
and  The  Critic,  or  a  Tragedy  Rehearsed,  a  farce, 
which,  like  most  of  his  other  pieces,  was  a 
model  of  its  kind,  and  shared  iu  their  success. 
In  the  same  year  also  his  father,  after  a  vain  at- 
tempt to  deal  with  the  disordered  state  of  affairs 
at  the  theatre,  resigned  his  post  in  despair. 

The  ruin  which  he  saw  approaching  was 
staved  off,  however,  by  other  successes  of 
his  brilliant  son,  who  now  entered  upon  the 
career  of  a  politician,  to  which  he  was  induced 
by  the  friendship  of  Fox.  A  seat  was  found  for 
him  at  Stafford  in  1780,  and  a  petition  com- 
plaining of  the  election  being  presented  gave 
him  a  chance  of  making  his  debut.  So  nervous 
and  excited  was  he,  however,  that  the  speech 
proved  \msatisfactory,  and  some  people  who 
were  reckoned  wise  and  supposed  to  be  able 
to  discern  rising  talent,  strongly  advised  him 
to  waste  no  further  time  in  the  house.  But  he 
knew  better  than  his  advisers,  and  pei-severed 
until  he  attained  celebrity  as  a  parliamentary 
oi-ator.  From  the  firet  he  joined  with  Fox,  and 
this  of  course  led  him  to  advocate  the  cause  of 
the  Prince  of  Wales,  with  whom  he  soon  became 
too  closely  acquainted  for  his  benefit.  In  1 782 
he  became  under  secretary  of  state;  iu  1783, 
secretary  of  the  treasury;  in  1806,  treasurer 
of  the  navy  and  privy-councillor ;  in  the  latter 
year  he  was  also  elected  member  for  West- 
minster, but  lost  his  seat  in  1807.  His  parlia- 
mentary reputation  as  an  orator  was  all  this 
time  growing,  until  it  reached  its  culminating 
point  in  the  sjjeech  on  the  impeachment  of 
WaiTen  Hastings,  which  is  described  by  con- 
temporaries as  the  greatest  ever  listened  to  in 
parliament.  Contrary  to  the  practice  of  the 
house  at  that  time,  it  was  gi-eeted  with  ap- 
plause on  all  sides,  and  the  minister  asked 
the  house  to  adjourn,  as  under  the  influence 
of  such  eloquence  they  were  unable  to  come  to 
an  impartial  decision.  Another  famous  ora- 
tion was  that  on  the  liberty  of  the  press,  in 
wliicli  h*  held  that  it  would  suffice  to  main- 


RICHARD    BRINSLHY    SHHRlDAiN 

After  ihc  Paiutii:g  by  SIR  JOSH C A   REYXOLDS 


EICHARD  BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN. 


277 


tain  the  freedom  of  the  country  against  a  cor- 
rupt parliament,  a  truckling  coiu't,  and  a 
tyrannical  i)riuce. 

In  1788  Sheridan's  father  died,  and  in  1792 
he  sutiered  a  heavy  blow  in  the  death  of  his 
wife.  In  1798  he  produced  Pizarro  and  The 
Stranger,  both  adaptations  from  Kotzebue.^  In 
1804  he  was  appointed  to  the  receivership  of 
the  Duchy  of  Cornwall  by  the  Prince  of  Wales, 
"as  a  trifling  proof  of  that  friendship  his 
royal  highness  had  felt  for  him  for  a  series 
of  years."  A  few  years  after  the  death  of  his 
first  wife  he  had  married  Miss  Ogle,  daughter 
of  the  Dean  of  Winchester,  who  brought  him 
considerable  accession  of  means.  But  not- 
withstanding this  and  his  other  sources  of  in- 
come, matters  at  the  theatre  had  become  almost 
unbearable,  when  they  were  brought  to  a 
crisis  by  the  burning  down  of  the  house.  Of 
course  arrangements  were  soon  made  for  its 
rebuilding,  and  it  was  agreed  that  Sheridan 
should  receive  £20,000  for  his  claims  and 
shai-e  of  the  property.  This,  instead  of  being 
a  relief  to  him,  was  rather  the  reverse,  for  the 
duns  like  vultures  gathered  round  him  to  share 
the  spoil.  His  habits  also  now  became  more 
dissolute,  and  his  friends  did  not  seek  his  com- 
pany so  often,  nor  did  the  prince  invite  him  so 
frequently  to  the  royal  table. 

In  1815  his  health  began  to  decline,  and  in 
the  spring  of  1816  it  gave  way  altogether.  So 
pressing  now  became  his  creditors  that  he  was 
actually  arrested  in  bed,  and  it  was  with  great 
difficulty  the  bailitf  was  persuaded  not  to  re- 
move him.  Indeed  rumours  were  circulated 
that  in  his  last  moments  he  was  left  in  want 
of  the  common  necessaries  of  life;  but  these 
rumours  his  friend  Kelly  indignantly  denied. 
The  Bishop  of  London,  hearing  of  his  state, 


'  Mr.  R.  H.  Stoddard,  iu  his  Personal  Reminiscences  by 
O'Keeffe,  Kelly,  and  Taylor,  gives  tlie  following  cui'ious 
information  about  the  production  of  the  fifth  act  of 
Pizarro,  as  related  by  Michael  Kelly,  which  is  character- 
istic of  Sheridan's  inveterate  habit  of  procrastination. 
After  detailing  the  difficulties  he  himself  encountered 
about  the  music  of  the  play,  Kelly  says:— "But  if  this 
were  a  puzzling  situation  for  a  composer,  what  will 
my  readers  think  of  that  in  which  the  actors  were  left, 
■when  I  state  the  fact  that  at  the  time  the  house  was 
overflowing  on  the  first  night's  performance,  all  that  was 
written  of  the  play  was  actually  rehearsing,  and  that, 
incredible  as  it  may  appear,  until  the  end  of  the  fourth 
act,  neither  Mrs.  Siddons,  nor  Charles  Kemble,  nor  Barry- 
more  had  all  their  speeches  for  the  fifth?  Mr.  Sheridan 
was  up-stairs  in  the  prompter's  room,  where  he  was  writ- 
ing the  last  part  of  the  play,  while  the  earlier  parts  were 
acting;  and  every  ten  minutes  he  brought  down  as  much 
of  the  dialogue  as  he  had  done,  piece-meal,  into  the  green- 
room, abusing  himself  and  his  negligence,  and  making  a 
thousand  winning  and  soothing  apologies  for  having  kept 
the  performers  so  long  iu  such  painful  suspense." 


attended  him,  and  Sheridan  appeared  greatly 
comforted  by  his  prayers  and  spiritual  advice. 
On  the  7th  of  July,  1816,  he  pa.ssed  away 
without  a  struggle.  His  remains  were  laid  in 
Westminster  Abbey,  near  those  of  Addison, 
Garrick,  and  Cumberland. 

Mr.  Hazlitt,  in  his  Lectures  on  the  English 
Comic  Writers,  says  of  Sheridan :  "  He  has 
been  justly  called  'a  dramatic  star  of  the  fii-st 
magnitude;'  and  indeed,  among  the  comic 
wi-iters  of  the  last  century,  he  'shines  like  Hes- 
perus among  the  lesser  lights.'  He  has  left 
four  dramas  behind  him,  all  different  or  of 
different  kinds,  and  all  excellent  iu  their  way. 
This  is  the  merit  of  Sheridan's 
comedies,  that  everything  in  them  tells  there 
is  no  labour-  in  vain.  .  .  .  The  School 
for  Scandal  is,  if  not  the  most  original,  per- 
haps the  most  finished  and  faultless  comedy 
which  we  have.  When  it  is  acted  you  hear 
people  all  ai'ound  you  exclaiming,  '  Surely  it 
is  impossible  for  anything  to  be  cleverer!' 
The  Rivals  is  one  of  the  most  agieeable  com- 
edies we  have.  In  the  elegance  and  brilliancy 
of  the  dialogue,  in  a  certain  animation  of  moral 
sentiment,  and  in  the  masterly  denouement  of 
the  fable.  The  School  for  Scandal  is  superior, 
but  The  Rivals  has  more  life  and  action  in  it, 
and  abounds  in  a  gi-eater  number  of  whimsical 
characters,  unexpected  incidents,  and  absurd 
contrasts  of  situation.  .  .  .  The  Duenna 
is  a  perfect  work  of  art.  It  has  the  utmost 
sweetness  and  point.  The  plot,  the  chai-actei-s, 
the  dialogue  are  all  complete  in  themselves, 
and  they  are  all  his  own,  and  the  songs  are 
the  best  that  ever  were  written,  except  those 
in  The  Beggar's  Opera.  They  have  a  joyous 
spirit  of  intoxication  in  them,  and  a  sti'ain  of 
the  most  melting  tenderness."  Lord  Macaulay, 
in  his  Essay  on  Warren  Hastings,  writes  thus 
of  Sheridan's  celebrated  oration: — "A  speech 
which  was  so  imjierfectly  reported  that  it  may 
be  said  to  be  wholly  lost,  but  which  was,  with- 
out doubt,  the  most  elaborately  brilliant  of  aU 
the  productions  of  his  ingenious  mind.  The 
impression  which  it  produced  was  such  as  has 
never  been  equalled.  .  .  .  The  ferment 
spread  fast  through  the  town.  Within  four- 
and-twenty  hours  Sheridan  was  offered  £1000 
for  the  copjTight  of  the  speech,  if  he  would 
himself  correct  it  for  the  press." 

In  1825  The  Memoirs  of  the  Right  Hon.  R.  B. 
Sheridan  appeared,  written  by  Thomas  Moore, 
who  is  said  to  have  received  £2000  for  the 
copyright.  Among  the  many  editions  of  Sheri- 
dan's works  which  have  been  published  we 
may  notice:  Speeches,  5  vols.  1798;  Dramatic 


278 


RTCHAED   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN. 


Worh,  edited  by  Thomas  Moore,  2  vols.  1821 ; 
aud  another  edition  by  Leigh  Hunt  was  issued 
in  1841.  In  1859  appeared  in  two  volumes 
Sheridan  and  his  Times,  by  an  Octogenarian ; 
and  his  Complete  Works,  with  Life  and  Anec- 
dotes, was  recently  issued  in  one  volume.] 


BOB    ACRES'    DUEL. 

(from  "the  rivals.") 

Acres'  Lodgings.    Enter  Sir  Lucius 
O'Trigger. 

Sir  L.  Mr.  Acres,  I  am  delighted  to  embrace 
you. 

Acres.  My  dear  Sir  Lucius,  I  kiss  your  hands. 

Sir  L.  Pray,  my  friend,  what  has  brought 
you  so  suddenly  to  Bath? 

Acres.  'Faith,  I  have  followed  Cupid's  Jack- 
a-lantern,  and  find  myself  in  a  quagmire  at 
last.  In  shoi't,  I  have  been  very  iU-used,  Sir 
Lucius.  I  don't  choose  to  mention  names, 
but  look  on  me  as  a  very  ill-used  gentleman. 

Sir  L.  Pray,  what  is  the  case?  I  ask  no 
names. 

Acres.  Mark  me,  Sii'  Lucius : — I  fall  as  deep 
as  need  be  in  love  with  a  young  lady — her 
friends  take  my  pai't — I  follow  her  to  Bath — 
send  word  of  my  arrival— and  receive  answer 
that  the  lady  is  to  be  otherwise  disposed  of. 
This,  Sir  Lucius,  I  call  being  ill-used. 

Sir  L.  Very  ill,  upon  my  conscience!  Pray, 
can  you  divine  the  cause  of  it? 

Acres.  Why,  there's  the  matter!  She  has 
another  lover,  one  Beverley,  who,  I  am  told,  is 
now  in  Bath.  Odds  slanders  and  lies !  he  must 
be  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

Sir  L.  A  rival  in  the  case,  is  there? — and 
you  think  he  has  supplanted  you  unfairly? 

Acres.  Unfairly!  to  be  sure  he  has.  He 
never  could  have  done  it  fairly. 

Sir  L.  Then  sure  you  know  what  is  to  be 
done? 

Acres.  Not  I,  upon  my  soul. 

Sir  L.  We  wear  no  i;"vords  here — but  you 
understand  me. 

Acres.  What!  fight  him? 

Sir  L.  Ay,  to  be  sure ;  what  can  I  mean  else  ? 

Acres.  But  he  lias  given  me  no  provocation. 

Sir  L.  Now  I  think  he  has  given  you  the 
greatest  provocation  in  the  world.  Can  a 
man  commit  a  more  heinous  offence  against 
another  than  to  fall  in  love  with  the  same 
woman'?  Oh,  by  my  soul,  it  is  the  most  un- 
pardonable breach  of  friendship. 


Acres.  Breach  of  friendship!  Ay,  ay;  but 
I  have  no  acquaintance  with  this  man.  I 
never  saw  him  in  my  life. 

Sir  L.  That's  no  argument  at  all — he  has 
the  less  right,  then,  to  take  such  a  liberty. 

Acres.  'Gad,  that's  true — I  gi'ow  full  of 
anger.  Sir  Lucius — I  fire  apace!  Odds  hilts 
and  blades !  I  find  a  man  may  have  a  deal  of 
valour  in  him  and  not  know  it.  But  couldn't 
I  contrive  to  have  a  little  right  on  my  side? 

Sir  L.  What  the  devil  signifies  right  when 
your  honour  is  concerned?  Do  you  thmk 
Achilles  or  my  little  Alexander  the  Great  ever 
inquired  where  the  right  lay?  No,  by  my 
soul,  they  drew  their  broadswords,  and  left 
the  lazy  sons  of  peace  to  settle  the  justice  of  it. 

Acres.  Your  words  are  a  grenadier's  march 
to  my  heart.  I  believe  courage  must  be  catch- 
ing. I  certainly  do  feel  a  kind  of  valour  ris- 
ing, as  it  were — a  kind  of  courage,  as  I  may 
say — Odds  flints,  pans,  and  triggers  !  I'll  chal- 
lenge him  directly. 

Sir  L.  Ah !  my  little  friend,  if  I  had  Blun- 
derbuss Hall  here  I  could  show  you  a  range  of 
ancestry,  in  the  O'Trigger  line,  that  would 
furnish  the  New  Room,  every  one  of  whom 
had  killed  his  man.  For  though  the  mansion- 
house  and  dirty  acres  have  slipped  through 
my  fingers,  I  thank  Heaven  our  honour  and 
the  family  pictures  are  as  fresh  as  ever. 

Acres.  Oh,  Sir  Lucius,  I  have  had  ancestors 
too! — every  man  of  them  colonel  or  cajDtaiu  in 
the  militia!  Odds  balls  aud  barrels!  say  no 
more — I'm  braced  for  it.  The  thunder  of 
your  words  has  soured  the  milk  of  human 
kindness  in  my  breast!  Zounds!  as  the  man 
in  the  play  says,  "  I  could  do  such  deeds " 

Sir  L.  Come,  come,  there  must  be  no  passion 
at  all  in  the  case ;  these  things  should  always 
be  done  civilly. 

Acres.  I  must  be  in  a  passion.  Sir  Lucius — 
I  must  be  in  a  rage ! — Dear  Sir  Lucius,  let  me 
be  in  a  rage,  if  you  love  me.  Come,  here's 
pen  and  paper.  {Sits  doxon  to  %i.rite.)  I  would 
the  ink  were  red !  Indite,  I  say,  indite.  How 
shall  I  begin?  Odds  bullets  and  blades!  I'll 
write  a  good  bold  hand,  however. 

Sir  L.  Pray  compose  yourself.    {Sits  down.) 

Acres.  Come,  now,  shall  I  begin  with  an 
oath?  Do,  Sir  Lucius,  let  me  begin  with  a 
dam'me ! 

Sir  L.  Pho,  pho!  do  the  thing  decently,  and 
like  a  Christian.     Begin  now — "Sii'" — 

Acres.  That's  too  civil  by  half. 

Sir  L.  "  To  prevent  the  confusion  that  might 
arise" — 

Acres.  {Writing  and  repeating.)    "To  pre- 


RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN. 


279 


vent  the  confusion  which  might  arise" — 
Well?— 

Sir  L.  "  From  our  both  addressing  the  same 
lady"— 

Acres.  Ay — there's  the  reason — "same  lady" 
— WeU?— 

Sir  L.  "  I  shall  expect  the  honour  of  your 
company" — 

Acres.  Zounds,  I'm  not  asking  him  to  dinner ! 

Sir  L.  Pray,  be  easy. 

Acres.  Well,  then,  "honour  of  your  com- 
pany"— 

Sir  L.  "To  settle  our  pretensions" — 

Acres.  Well? 

Sir  L.  Let  me  see — aye.  King's  Mead-fields 
will  do — "  in  King's  Mead-tields." 

Acres.  So,  that's  down.  Well,  I'll  fold  it 
up  presently;  my  own  crest — a  hand  and 
dagger — shall  be  the  seal. 

Sir  L.  You  see,  now,  this  little  explanation 
will  put  a  stop  at  once  to  all  confusion  or 
misunderstanding  that  might  arise  between 
you. 

Acres.  Ay,  we  fight  to  prevent  any  misun- 
derstanding. 

Sir  L.  Now,  I'll  leave  you  to  fix  your  own 
time.  Take  my  advice  and  you'll  decide  it 
tliis  evening,  if  you  can;  then,  let  the  worse 
come  of  it,  'twiU  be  oflF  your  mind  to-morrow. 

Acres.  Very  true. 

Sir  L.  So  I  shall  see  nothing  more  of  you, 
unless  it  be  by  letter,  till  the  evening.  I 
would  do  myself  the  honour  to  carry  your 
message,  but,  to  tell  you  a  secret,  I  believe  I 
shall  have  just  such  another  affair  on  my  own 
hands.  There  is  a  gay  captain  here  who  put  a 
jest  on  me  lately  at  the  expense  of  my  country, 
and  I  only  want  to  fall  in  with  the  gentleman 
to  call  him  out. 

Acres.  By  ray  valour,  I  should  like  to  see 
you  fight  first.  Odds  life !  I  should  like  to 
see  you  kill  him,  if  it  was  only  to  get  a  little 
lesson. 

Sir  L.  I  shall  be  very  jiroud  of  instructing 
you.  Well,  for  the  present — but  remember 
now,  when  you  meet  your  antagonist,  do  every- 
thing in  a  mild  and  agreeable  manner.  Let 
your  courage  be  as  keen,  but  at  the  same  time 
as  polished,  as  your  sword.     {^Exit  Sir  Lucius. 

Acres  sealing  the  letter,  while  David  his 
servant  enters. 

David.  Then,  by  the  mass,  sir,  I  would  do 
no  such  thing!  Ne'er  a  Sir  Lucifer  in  the 
kingdom  should  make  me  fight  when  I  wa'n't 
so  minded.  Oons !  what  will  the  old  lady  say 
when  she  hears  o't ! 


Acres.  But  my  honour,  David,  my  honour! 
I  must  be  very  careful  of  my  honour. 

David.  Ay,  by  the  mass,  and  I  would  be 
very  careful  of  it;  and  I  think,  in  return,  my 
honour  couldn't  do  less  than  be  very  careful 
of  me. 

Acres.  Odds  blades!  David,  no  gentleman 
will  ever  risk  the  loss  of  his  honour! 

David.  1  say,  then,  it  would  be  but  civil  in 
honour  never  to  risk  the  loss  of  a,  gentleman. 
Look  ye,  master,  this  honour  seems  to  me  a 
marvellous  false  friend ;  ay,  truly,  a  very 
courtier-like  servant.  Put  the  case,  I  was  a 
gentleman  (which,  thank  Heaven,  no  one  can 
say  of  me),  well — my  honour  makes  me  quar- 
rel with  another  gentleman  of  my  acquaint- 
ance. So — we  fight.  (Pleasant  enough  that!) 
Boh!  I  kill  him  (the  more's  my  luck).  Now, 
pray,  who  gets  the  profit  of  it  I  Why,  my 
honour.  But  put  the  case  that  he  kills  me ! 
By  the  mass!  I  go  to  the  worms,  and  my 
honour  whips  over  to  my  enemy. 

Acres.  No,  David,  in  that  case — odds  crowns 
and  laurels!  your  honour  follows  you  to  the 
grave. 

David.  Now  that's  just  the  place  where  I 
could  make  a  shift  to  do  without  it. 

Acres.  Zounds!  David,  you  are  a  coward! — 
It  doesn't  become  my  valour  to  listen  to  you. 
What,  shall  I  disgrace  my  ancestors  ?  Think 
of  that,  David — think  what  it  would  be  to 
disgrace  my  ancestors! 

David.  Under  favour,  the  surest  way  of  not 
disgi-acing  them  is  to  keep  as  long  as  you  can 
out  of  their  company.  Look'ee  now,  master, 
to  go  to  them  in  such  haste — with  an  ounce 
of  lead  in  your  brains^I  should  think  might 
as  well  be  let  alone.  Our  ancestors  are  very 
good  kind  of  folks;  but  they  are  the  last 
people  I  should  choose  to  have  a  visiting  ac- 
quaintance with. 

Acres.  But,  David,  now,  you  don't  think 
there  is  such  very,  very,  very  great  danger, 
hey? — Odds  life!  people  often  fight  without 
any  mischief  done ! 

David.  By  the  mass,  I  think  'tis  ten  to  one 
against  you ! — Oons !  here  to  meet  some  lion- 
headed  fellow,  I  warrant,  with  his  d d 

double-barrelled  swords  and  cut-and-thrust 
pistols!  Lord  bless  us!  it  makes  me  tremble 
to  think  o't — those  be  such  desperate  bloody- 
minded  weapons!  well,  I  never  could  abide 
'em ! — from  a  child  I  never  could  fancy  'em ! 
— I  sup230se  there  an't  been  so  merciless  a 
beast  in  the  world  as  youi-  loaded  pistol. 

Acres.  Zounds!  T  ?6'o?i'^  be  afraid — odds  fire 
and  fury!  you  sha'n't  make  me  afraid — Here 


280 


RICHAED   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN. 


is  the  challenge,  and  I  have  sent  for  my  dear 
friend,  Jack  Absolute,  to  carry  it  for  me. 

David.  Ay,  i'  the  name  of  mischief,  let  him 
be  the  messenger. — For  my  part,  I  wouldn't 
lend  a  hand  to  it  for  the  best  horse  in  your 
stable.  By  the  mass,  it  don't  look  like  an- 
other letter! — It  is,  as  I  may  say,  a  designing 
and  malicious-looking  letter! — and  I  warrant 
smells  of  gunpowder,  like  a  soldier's  pouch! — 
Oons!  I  wouldn't  swear  it  mayn't  go  off. 

{Drops  it  in  alarm.) 

Acres.  {Starting.)  Out,  you  poltroon! — you 
ha'n't  the  valour  of  a  grasshopper. 

David.  Well,  I  say  no  more — 'twill  be  sad 
news,  to  be  sure,  at  Clod  Hall — but  I  ha' 
done.  How  Phillis  will  howl  when  she  hears 
of  it! — ay,  poor  bitch,  she  little  thinks  what 
shooting  her  master's  going  after! — and  I 
warrant  old  Crop,  who  has  cai'ried  your 
honour,  field  and  road,  these  ten  years,  will 
curse  the  hour  he  was  born !      (  Whimpering.) 

Acres.  It  won't  do,  David — so  get  along, 
you  coward — I  am  determined  to  fight  while 
I'm  in  the  mind. 

Unter  Servant. 

Serv.  Captain  Absolute,  sir. 

Acres.  O!  show  him  up.  [Exit  Servant. 

David.  {On  his  knees.)  Well,  Heaven  send 
we  be  all  alive  this  time  to-morrow. 

Acres.  What's  that! — Don't  provoke  me, 
David! 

David.  Good-bye,  master. 

[Exit  David,  whimpering. 

Acres.  Get  along,  you  cowardly,  dastardly, 
croaking  raven. 

Enter  Captain  Absolute. 

Captain  A .  What's  the  matter,  Bob  ? 

Acres.  A  vile,  sheep-hearted  blockhead ;  if 
I  hadn't  the  valour  of  St.  George,  and  the 
dragon  to  boot — 

Captain  A.  But  what  did  you  want  with 
me,  Bob? 

Acres.  Oh!  there —  {Gives  him  the  challenge.) 

Captain  A.  "  To  Ensign  Beverley."  {Aside.) 
So,  what's  going  on  now?     Well,  what's  this? 

Acres.  A  challenge! 

Captain  A.  Indeed  !  Why,  you  won't  fight 
him,  will  you.  Bob? 

Acres.  'Egad,  but  I  will.  Jack.  Sir  Lucius 
has  wrought  me  to  it.  He  has  left  me  fuU  of 
rage — and  I'll  fight  this  evening,  that  so  much 
good  passion  mayn't  be  wasted. 

Captain  A.  But  what  liave  I  to  do  with 
this? 


Acres.  Why,  as  I  think  you  know  some- 
thing of  this  fellow,  I  want  you  to  find  him 
out  for  me,  and  give  him  this  mortal  de- 
fiance. 

Captain  A.  Well,  give  it  me,  and,  trust  me, 
he  gets  it. 

Acres.  Thank  you,  my  dear  friend,  my 
dear  Jack  ;  but  it  is  giving  you  a  great  deal 
of  trouble. 

Captain  A.  Not  in  the  least — I  beg  you 
won't  mention  it.  No  trouble  in  the  world, 
I  assure  you. 

Acres.  You  are  very  kind.  What  it  is  to  have 
a  friend ! — you  couldn't  be  my  second,  could 
you,  Jack? 

Captain  A.  Why  no.  Bob,  not  in  this  afiair 
— it  would  not  be  quite  so  proper. 

Acres.  Well,  then,  I  must  get  my  friend 
Sir  Lucius.  I  shall  have  your  good  wishes, 
however.  Jack? 

Captain  A .  Whenever  he  meets  you,  believe 
me. 

Enter  Servant. 

Serv.  Sir  Anthony  Absolute  is  below,  in- 
quii'ing  for  the  Captain. 

Captain  A.  I'll  come  instantly. — Well,  my 
little  hero,  success  attend  you.  [Going. 

Acres.  Stay,  stay.  Jack.  If  Beverley  should 
ask  you  what  kind  of  a  man  your  friend  Acres 
is,  do  tell  him  I  am  a  devil  of  a  fellow — will 
you.  Jack? 

Captain  A.  To  be  sui-e  I  shall.  I'll  say  you 
are  a  determined  dog — hey.  Bob? 

Acres.  Ay,  do,  do — and  if  that  frightens 
him,  'egad,  perhaps  he  mayn't  come.  So  tell 
him  I  generally  kill  a  man  a  week ;  will  you. 
Jack? 

Captain  A.  I  will,  I  wiU  ;  I'll  say  you  are 
called  in  the  country  "  Fighting  Bob." 

Acres.  Right,  right — 'tis  all  to  prevent  mis- 
chief; for  I  don't  want  to  take  his  hfe,  if  I 
clear  my  honour. 

Captain  A.  No!  that's  very  kind  of  you. 

Acres.  Why,  you  don't  wish  me  to  kill  him, 
do  you,  Jack  ? 

Captain  A.  No,  upon  my  soul,  I  do  not. 
But  a  devil  of  a  fellow,  hey  ?  [Going. 

Acres.  True,  true.  But  stay — stay,  Jack  ; 
you  may  add  that  you  never  saw  me  in  such 
a  rage  before — a  most  devouring  rage. 

Captain  A.  I  will,  I  will. 

Acres.  Remember,  Jack  —  a  determined 
dog! 

Captain  A.  Ay,  ay — "Fighting  Bob." 

[Exeunt  severally. 


RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN. 


281 


King's  Mead-fields.— Enter  Sir  Lucius  and 
Acres,  with  pistols. 

Acres.  By  my  valoui-  !  then,  Sir  Lucius, 
forty  yards  is  a  good  distance.  Odds  levels 
and  aims !     I  say  it  is  a  good  distance. 

Sir  L.  It  is  for  muskets  or  small  field- 
pieces  ;  upon  my  conscience,  Mr.  Acres,  you 
mvist  leave  these  things  to  me.  Stay,  now; 
I'll  show  you.  (Measures  six  paces.)  There, 
now,  that  is  a  very  pretty  distance — a  pretty 
gentleman's  distance. 

Acres.  Zounds !  we  might  as  well  fight  in  a 
sentry-box  !  I  tell  you.  Sir  Lucius,  the  further 
he  is  off,  the  cooler  I  shall  take  my  aim. 

Sir  L.  'Faith,  then,  I  suppose  you  would 
aim  at  him  best  of  all  if  he  was  out  of  sight ! 

Acres.  No,  Sir  Lucius ;  but  1  should  think 
forty,  or  eight-and-thirty  yards — 

Sir  L.  Pho,  pho  !  Nonsense  !  Three  or  four 
feet  between  the  mouths  of  your  pistols  is  as 
good  ;is  a  mile. 

Acres.  Odds  bullets,  no!  —  by  my  valour! 
there  is  no  merit  in  killing  him  so  neai".  Do, 
my  dear  Sir  Lucius,  let  me  bring  him  down 
at  a  long  shot — a  long  shot,  Sir  Lucius,  if  you 
love  me  I 

Sir  L.  Well,  the  gentleman's  friend  and  I 
must  settle  that.  But  tell  me  now,  Mr.  Acres, 
in  case  of  an  accident,  is  there  any  little  will 
or  commission  I  could  execute  for  you  ? 

Acres.  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  Sir  Lucius; 
but  I  don't  understand — 

Sir  L.  Why,  you  may  think  there's  no  being 
shot  at  without  a  little  risk — and  if  an  \\n- 
lucky  bullet  should  carrj'  a  quietus  with  it — 
I  say,  it  will  be  no  time  then  to  be  bothering 
you  about  family  matters. 

Acres.  A  quietus  I 

Sir  L.  For  instance,  now — if  that  should  be 
the  case — would  you  choose  to  be  jjickled  and 
sent  home  ? — or  would  it  be  the  same  to  yo\i 
to  lie  hei-e  in  the  Abbey? — I'm  told  there  is 
very  snug  lying  in  the  Abbey. 

Acres.  Pickled  ! — Snug  lying  in  the  Abbey  ! 
— Odds  tremoi-s !     Sir  Lucius,  don't  talk  so  ! 

Sir  L.  I  suppose,  Mr.  Acres,  you  never  were 
engaged  in  an  affair  of  this  kind  before  ? 

Acres.  No,  Sir  Lucius,  never  before,  (aside) 
and  never  will  again,  if  I  get  out  of  this. 

Sir  L.  A  h,  that's  a  pity  ! — there's  nothing 
like  being  used  to  a  thing. — Pi'ay,  now,  how 
would  you  receive  the  gentleman's  shot? 

Acres.  Odds  files !  I've  practised  that.  There, 
Sir  Lucius,  there — (puts  himself  in  an  attitude) 
— a  side-front,  hey ! — Odd  !  I'll  make  myself 
small  enough — I'll  stand  edgeways. 


Sir  L.  Now,  you're  quite  out — for  if  you 

stand  so  when  I  take  my  aim (levelling  at 

him). 

Acres.  Zounds,  Sir  Lucius !  are  you  sure  it 
is  not  cocked  ? 

Sir  L.  Never  fear. 

Acres.  But— but — you  don't  know ;  it  may 
go  off  of  its  own  head  ? 

Sir  L.  Pho !  be  easy.  Well,  now  if  I  hit 
you  in  the  body,  my  bullet  has  a  double 
chance ;  for  if  it  misses  a  vital  part  on  your 
right  side,  'twill  be  very  hard  if  it  don't  suc- 
ceed on  the  left. 

Acres.  A  vitiil  part ! 

Sir  L.  But,  there — fix  youi-self  so  (placing 
him),  let  him  see  the  broadside  of  your  full 
front.  (Sir  Lucius  places  him  face  to  face,  then 
turns  and  goes  to  the  left.  Acres  has  in  the 
interim  turned  his  back  in  great  pei'turbation.) 
Oh,  bother !  do  you  call  that  the  broadside  of 
your  fi'ont?  (Acres  turns  reluctantly.)  There 
—now  a  ball  or  two  may  pass  clean  through 
your  body,  and  never  do  you  any  harm  at 
all. 

Acres.  Clean  through  me !  A  ball  or  two 
clean  through  me ! 

Sir  L.  Ay,  may  they — and  it  is  much  the 
genteelest  attitude  into  the  bargain. 

Acres.  Look  ye !  Sir  Lucius — I'd  just  as  lieve 
be  shot  in  an  awkward  posture  as  a  genteel 
one — so,  by  my  valour  1  I  will  stand  edge- 
ways. 

Sir  L.  (Looking  at  his  watch.)  Sure  they 
don't  mean  to  disappoint  us  ! 

Acres.  (Aside.)  1  hope  they  do. 

Sir  L.  Hah  !  no,  'faith — I  think  I  see  them 
coming. 

Ac7-es.  Hey  ? — what ! — coming ! 

Sir  L.  Ay,  who  are  those  yonder,  getting 
over  the  stile  I 

Acres.  There  are  two  of  them,  indeed  !  well, 
let  them  come — hey,  Sir  Lucius  ? — we — we— 
we — we — won't  run  (takes  his  arm). 

Sir  L.  Run ! 

Acres.  No,  I  say — we  wciHt  ran,  by  my 
valour ! 

Sir  L.  What  the  devil's  the  matter  with 
you? 

Acres.  Nothing — nothing — my  dear  friend 
— my  dear  Sir  Lucius — but  I — I — I  don't  feel 
quite  so  bold,  somehow,  as  I  did. 

Sir  L.  O  fie  !  consider  your  honour. 

Acres.  Ay,  true — my  honour — do.  Sir  Lucius^ 
edge  in  a  word  or  two,  every  now  and  then, 
about  my  honour. 

Sir  L.  (Looking.)  Well,  here  they're  coming. 

Acres.  Sir  Lucius,  if  I  wa'n't  with  you,  I 


282 


EICHAED  BEINSLEY  SHEEIDAN. 


should  almost  think  I  was  afraid — if  my  valour 
should  leave  me  ! — valour  will  come  and  go. 

Sir  L.  Then  pray  keep  it  fast,  while  you 
have  it. 

Acres.  Sir  Lucius — I  doubt  it  is  going — yes, 
my  valour  is  certainly  going!  it  is  sneaking 
off !- — I  feel  it  oozing  out,  as  it  were,  at  the 
palms  of  my  hands  ! 

Sir  L.  Your  honour,  your  honour.  Here 
they  are. 

Acres.  O  mercy ! — now — that  I  was  safe  at 
Clod  Hall !  or  could  be  shot  before  I  was 
aware ! 

Enter  Faulkland  and  Captain  Absolute. 

Sir  L.  Gentlemen,  your  most  obedient  — 
hah  !  what.  Captain  Absolute  ! — So,  I  suppose, 
sir,  you  are  come  here,  just  like  myself — 
to  do  a  kind  office,  first  for  your  friend — then 
to  proceed  to  business  on  your  own  account. 

A  cres.  What,  Jack !  my  dear  Jack  !  my  dear 
friend  !  (Shakes  his  hand.) 

Captain  A.  Harkye,  Bob,  Beverley's  at  hand. 
(Acres  retreats  to  left.) 

Sir  L.  Well,  Mr.  Acres — I  don't  blame  your 
saluting  the  gentleman  civilly.  (To  Faulk- 
land^ So,  Mr.  Beverley,  if  you'll  choose  your 
weapons,  the  Captain  and  I  will  measure  the 
ground. 

Faidk.  My  weapons,  sir ! 

Acres.  Odds  life  !  Sir  Lucius,  I'm  not  going 
to  fight  Mr.  Faulkland ;  these  are  my  par- 
ticular friends ! 

(Shakes  hands  with  Faulkland — goes  back.) 

Sir  L.  What,  sir,  did  yoii  not  come  here  to 
fight  Mr.  Acres? 

Faidk.  Not  I,  upon  my  word,  sir. 

Sir  L.  Well,  now,  that's  mighty  provoking ! 
But  I  hope,  Mr.  Faulkland,  as  there  are  three 
of  us  come  on  purpose  for  the  game — you  won't 
be  so  cantankerous  as  to  spoil  the  party  by 
standing  out. 

Captain  A.  Oh  pray,  Faulkland,  fight  to 
oblige  Sir  Lucius ! 

Faulk.  Nay,  if  Mr.  Acres  is  so  bent  on  the 
matter. 

Acres.  No,  no,  Mr.  Faulkland — I'll  bear  my 
disappointment  like  a  Christian.  Look  ye,  Sir 
Lucius,  there's  no  occasion  at  all  for  me  to 
fight ;  and  if  it  is  the  same  to  you,  I'd  as  lieve 
let  it  alone. 

Sir  L.  01)serve  me,  Mr.  Acres — I  must  not 
be  trifled  with.  You  have  certainly  challenged 
somebody,  and  you  came  here  to  fight  him — 
now,  if  that  gentleman  is  willing  to  represent 
him — I  can't  see,  for  my  soul,  why  it  isn't  just 
the  same  thingr. 


Acres.  Why  no.  Sir  Lucius,  I  tell  you  'tis 
one  Beverley  I've  challenged — a  fellow,  you 
see,  that  dare  not  show  his  face.  If  he  were 
here  I'd  make  him  give  up  his  pretensions 
directly. 

Captain  A.  Hold,  Bob — let  me  set  you  right 
—  there  is  no  such  man  as  Beverley  in  the 
case.  The  person  who  assumed  that  name  is 
before  you;  and  as  his  pretensions  are  the 
same  in  both  characters,  he  is  ready  to  support 
them  in  whatever  way  you  may  please. 

Sir  L.  WeU,  this  is  lucky.  (Slaps  him  on 
the  back.)     Now  you  have  an  opportunity. 

Acres.  What,  quarrel  with  my  dear  friend 
Jack  Absolute ! — not  if  he  were  fifty  Bever- 
leys !  (Shakes  his  hand  warmly.)  Zounds ! 
Sir  Lucius,  you  would  not  have  me  be  so  un- 
natural ! 

Sir  L.  Upon  my  conscience,  Mr.  Acres,  your 
valour  has  oozed  away  with  a  vengeance ! 

Acres.  Not  in  the  least !  odds  backs  and 
abettors  I  I'll  be  your  second  with  all  my 
heart — and  if  you  should  get  a  quietus,  you 
may  command  me  entirely.  I'll  get  you  snug 
lying  in  the  Abbey  here ;  or  pickle  you,  and 
send  you  over  to  Blunderbuss  Hall,  or  anything 
of  the  kind,  with  the  greatest  pleasure. 

Sir  L.  Pho,  pho  !  you  are  little  better  than 
a  coward. 

.(4  cres.  Mind,  gentlemen,  he  calls  me  a  coward; 
coward  was  the  word,  by  my  valour ! 

Sir  L.  Well,  sir? 

Acres.  Very  well,  sir.  (Gently.)  Look  ye, 
Sir  Lucius, 'tisn't  that  I  mind  the  word  coward. 
Coward  may  be  said  in  joke ;  but  if  you  had 
called  me  a  poltroon,  odds  daggers  and  balls! — 

Sir  L.  (Sternly.)  Well,  sir? 

Acres.  I  should  have  thought  you  a  very  ill- 
bred  man. 

Sir  L.  Pho  !  you  are  beneath  my  notice. 

Acres.  I'm  very  glad  of  it. 

Captain  A .  Nay,  Sir  Lucius,  you  can't  have 
a  better  second  than  my  friend  Acres.  He  is 
a  most  determined  dog — called  in  the  country 
Fighting  Bob.  He  generally  kills  a  man  a 
week — don't  you.  Bob? 

Acres.  Ay — at  home  ! 


1 


THE   MONEY-HUNTER. 

(fkom  "the  duenna.") 

[Don  Jerome  and  his  son  Ferdinand  discuss 
the  marriage  of  Louisa.  Don  Jerome  her 
father  wishes  her  to  marry  Isaac  a  rich  Jew, 


RICHAED  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 


283 


while  her  brother  Ferdiuaud  pleads  for  his 
friend  Antonio.] 

Jer.  Object  to  Anton  iol  I  have  said  it:  his 
poverty;  can  you  acquit  him  of  that/ 

Ferd.  Sii',  I  own  he  is  not  over  rich ;  but 
he  is  of  as  ancient  and  honourable  a  family  as 
any  in  the  kingdom. 

Jer.  Yes,  I  know  the  beggars  are  a  very 
ancient  fanuly  in  most  kingdoms ;  but  never 
in  great  rejjute,  boy. 

Ferd.  Antonio,  sir,  has  many  amiable  qual- 
ities. 

Jer.  But  he  is  poor ;  can  you  clear  him  of 
that,  I  say  %  Is  he  not  a  gay,  dissipated  rake, 
who  has  squandered  his  patrimony  % 

Ferd.  Sir,  he  inherited  but  little :  and  that 
his  generosity,  more  than  his  pi^ofuseness,  has 
stripped  him  of;  but  he  has  never  sullied  his 
honour,  which,  with  his  title,  has  outlived  his 
means. 

Jer.  Psha  !  you  talk  like  a  blockhead.  No- 
bility, without  an  estate,  is  as  ridiculous  as 
gold  lace  on  a  frieze  coat. 

Ferd.  This  language,  sir,  would  better  be- 
come a  Dutch  or  English  trader  than  a 
Spaniard. 

Jer.  Yes  ;  and  those  Dutch  and  English 
traders,  as  you  call  them,  are  the  wiser  people. 
Why,  booby,  in  England  they  were  formerly 
as  nice,  as  to  birth  and  family,  as  we  are :  but 
they  have  long  discovered  what  a  wonderful 
purifier  gold  is;  and  now,  no  one  there  re- 
gards pedigree  in  anything  but  a  horse.  Oh  ! 
iiere  comes  Isaac !  I  hope  he  has  prospered  in 
his  suit. 

Ferd.  Doubtless  that  agreeable  figure  of  his 
must  have  helped  his  suit  surprisingly. 

Jer.  How  now?      (Ferdinand  walks  aside.) 

Enter  Isaac. 

[Isaac,  who  has  been  sent  in  by  Don  Jerome 
to  plead  his  suit  with  his  daughter,  has  in- 
stead foimd  her  duenna,  who,  to  help  Louisa 
to  escape  the  marriage,  takes  her  place.] 

Jer.  Well,  my  friend,  have  you  softened  herl 

Isa.  Oh !  yes ;  I  have  softened  her. 

Jer.  What!  does  she  come  to? 

Isa.  Why,  truly,  she  was  kinder  than  I  ex- 
pected to  find  her. 

Jer.  And  the  dear  little  angel  was  civil,  eh? 

Isa.  Yes,  the  pretty  little  angel  was  very 
civil. 

Jer.  I'm  transported  to  hear  it.  Well,  and 
you  were  astonished  at  her  beauty,  eh  ? 

Isa.  I  was  astonished,  indeed  !  Pray,  how 
old  is  miss? 


Jer.  How   old?     Let  me   see  — eight  and 
twelve — she  is  twenty. 
Isa.  Twenty  \ 
Jer.  Ay,  to  a  month. 

Isa.  Then,  upon  my  soul,  she  is  the  oldest- 
looking  girl  of  her  age  in  Christendom. 

Jer.  Do  you  think  so?     But,  I  believe,  you 
will  not  see  a  prettier  girl. 
Isa.  Here  and  thei'e  one. 
Jer.  Louisa  has  the  family  face. 
Isa.  Yes,  egad  !     I  should  have  taken  it  for 
a  family  face,  and  one  that  has  been  in  the 
family  some  time,  too.  {Aside.) 

Jer.  She  has  her  father's  eyes. 
Isa.  Truly,  I  should  have  guessed  them  to 
have  been  so.     If  she  had  her  mothei-'s  spec- 
tacles, I  believe  she  would  not  see  the  worse. 

{Aside.) 
Jer.  Her  aunt  Ursula's  nose,  and  her  grand- 
mother's forehead,  to  a  hair. 

Isa.  Ay,  faith  !  and  her  grandfather's  chin 
to  a  hair.  {Aside.) 

Jer.  Well,  if  she  was  but  as  dutiful  as  she's 
handsome— and,  harkye !  friend  Isaac,  she  is 
none  of  your  made-up  beauties ;  her  charms 
are  of  the  lasting  kind. 

Isa.  I'faith !  so  they  should ;  for  if  she  be 
but  twenty  now,  she  may  double  her  age  before 
her  years  will  overtake  her  face. 

Jer.  Why,  zounds !  Master  Isaac,  you  are 
not  sneering,  are  you  ? 

Isa.  Why,  now,  seriously,  Don  Jerome,  do 
you  think  your  daughter  handsome  ? 

Jer.  By  this  light  she's  as  handsome  a  girl 
as  any  in  Seville. 

Isa.  Then  by  these  eyes  I  think  her  as  plain 
a  woman  as  ever  I  beheld. 

Jer.  By  St.  Jago,  you  must  be  blind. 
Isa.  No,  no  ;  'tis  you  are  partial. 
Jer.  How!  have  I  neither  sense  nor  taste? 
If  a  fair  skin,  fine  eyes,  teeth  of  ivory,  with  a 
lovely  bloom  and  a  delicate  shape;  if  these, 
with  a  heavenly  voice  and  a  world  of  grace, 
are  not  charms,  I  know  not  what  you  call 
beautiful. 

Isa.  Good  lack!  with  what  eyes  a  father 
sees  !  As  I  have  life,  she  is  the  very  reverse 
of  all  this ;  as  for  the  dimity  skin  you  told  me 
of,  I  swear  'tis  a  thorough  nankeen  as  ever  I 
saw ;  for  her  eyes,  their  utmost  merit  is  not 
squinting ;  for  her  teeth,  where  there  is  one 
of  ivory,  its  neighbour  is  pure  ebony,  black 
and  white  alternately,  just  like  the  keys  of  an 
harpsichord.  Then,  as  to  her  singing  and 
heavenly  voice,  by  this  hand  she  has  a  shrill 
cracked  pipe,  that  sounds  for  all  the  world  like 
a  child's  trumpet. 


284 


EICHAED   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN. 


Jer.  Why,  you  little  Hebrew  scoundrel,  do 
you  mean  to  insult  me?  Out  of  my  house,  I 
say! 

Ferd.  Dear  sir,  what's  the  mattei'? 

Jer.  Why,  this  Israelite  here  has  the  impu- 
dence to  say  your  sister's  ugly. 

Ferd.  He  must  be  either  blind  or  insolent. 

ha.  So  I  find  they  are  all  iu  a  story. 
Egad  !  I  believe  I  have  gone  too  far.  (Aside.) 

Ferd.  Sure,  sir,  there  must  be  some  mistake; 
it  can't  be  my  sister  whom  he  hiis  seen. 

Jer.  'Sdeath!  you  ai-e  as  great  a  fool  as  he! 
What  mistake  can  there  be?  Did  not  I  lock 
up  Louisa  ?  and  haven't  I  the  key  in  my  own 
pocket?  And  didn't  her  maid  show  him  into 
the  dressing-room?  And  yet  you  talk  of  a 
mistake.  No;  the  Portuguese  meant  to  insult 
me,  and  but  that  this  roof  protects  him,  old 
as  I  am,  this  sword  should  do  me  justice. 

Isa.  I  must  get  off  as  well  as  I  can;  her 
fortune  is  not  the  less  handsome.  {Aside.) 


Duet. — Isaac  and  Jerome. 


Isa. 


Believe  me,  good  sir,  I  ne'er  meant  to  offend; 
My  mistress  I  love,  and  I  value  my  friend ! 
To  win  her,  and  wed  her,  is  still  my  request. 
For  better,  for  worse, — and  I  swear  I  don't  jest. 

Jer. 

Zounds !  you'd  best  not  provoke  me,  my  rage  is  so 
high. 
Isa. 
Hold  him  fast,  I  beseech  you,  his  rage  is  so  high ! 
Good  sir,  you're  too  hot,  and  this  place  I  must  fly. 

Jer. 

You're  a  knave  and  a  sot,  and  this  place  you'd  best 

fly- 

Isa.  Don  Jerome,  come  now,  let  us  lay  aside 
all  joking,  and  be  serious. 

Jer.  How  ? 

Isa.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  I'll  be  hanged  if  you 
haven't  taken  my  abuse  of  your  daughter 
seriously. 

Jer.  You  meant  it  so,  did  not  you? 

Isa.  Oh,  mercy,  no!  a  joke  ;  just  to  try  how 
angry  it  would  make  you. 

Jer.  Was  that  .-ill,  i'faith?  I  didn't  know 
you  had  been  such  a  wag.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  By 
St.  Jago !  you  made  me  very  angry,  though. 
Well,  and  do  you  think  Louisa  handsome  ? 

Isa.  Handsome !  Venus  de  Medicis  was  a 
Bybil  to  her. 

Jer.  Give  me  your  hand,  you  little  jocose 
rogue.     Egad  !  I  thought  we  had  been  all  off. 

Ferd.  So !  I  was  in  liojjes  this  would  have 
been  a  quarrel ;  but  I  find  the  Jew  is  too  cun- 
ning. (Aside.) 


Jer.  Ay,  this  guSt  of  passion  has  made  me 
dry.  I  am  seldom  ruffled.  Order  some  wine 
iu  the  next  room.  Let  us  drink  the  ])oor  girl's 
health.  Poor  Louisa!  Ugly,  eh?  ha,  ha,  ha! 
'Twas  a  very  good  joke,  indeed. 

Isa.  And  a  very  true  one,  for  all  that. 

(Aside.) 

Jer.  And,  Ferdinand,  I  insist  upon  your 
drinking  success  to  my  friend. 

Ferd.  Sir,  I  will  drink  success  to  my  friend 
with  all  my  heart. 

Jer.  Come,  little  Solomon,  if  any  sparks 
of  anger  had  remained,  this  would  be  the 
only  way  to  quench  them. 

[The  little  Jew,  Isaac,  however,  was  cleverly 
cheated  into  marrying  the  duenna,  while 
Louisa  was  united  to  Antonio.] 


THE   HAPPIEST   COUPLE. 

(FROM     "  THE    SCHOOL    FOE    SCANDAL.") 

Sir  Peter  and  Lady  Teazle,  husband  and 
wife. 

Lady  T.  Lud  !  Sir  Peter,  I  hope  you  haven't 
been  quarrelling  with  Maria?  It  is  not  using 
me  well  to  be  ill-humouied  when  I  am  not 
by. 

Sir  P.  Ah  !  Lady  Teazle,  you  might  have 
the  power  to  make  me  good-humoured  at  all 
times. 

Lady  T.  I  am  !5ure  I  wish  I  had  ;  for  I 
want  you  to  be  in  a  charming  sweet  temper 
at  this  moment.  Do  be  good-humoured  now, 
and  let  me  have  two  hundred  jsounds,  will 
you? 

Sir  P.  Two  hundred  pounds !  What,  a'n't 
I  to  be  in  a  good-humour  without  paying  for 
it?  But  speak  to  me  thus,  and,  i'faith  !  there's 
nothing  I  could  refuse  3^011.  You  shall  have 
it ;  (gives  notes)  but  seal  me  a  bond  for  the 
repayment. 

Lady  T.  Oh !  no :  there,  my  note  of  hand 
will  do  as  well.  (Offering  her  hand.) 

Sir  P.  And  you  shall  no  longer  reproach 
me  with  not  giving  you  an  independent  settle- 
ment. I  mean  shortly  to  surprise  you :  but 
shall  we  always  live  thus  ?  eh ! 

Lady  T.  If  you  please.  I'm  sure  I  don't 
care  how  soon  we  leave  off  quarrelling,  pro- 
vided you'll  own  you  were  tired  first. 

Sir  P.  Well,  then,  let  our  future  contest  be, 
who  shall  be  most  obliging. 

Lady  T.  I  assure  you.  Sir  Peter,  good- 
nature becomes  you  ;  you  look  now  as  you  did 


RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN. 


285 


before  we  were  married,  wlien  you  used  to 
walk  with  me  under  the  elms,  and  tell  me 
stories  of  what  a  gallant  you  were  in  your 
youtli,  and  chuck  me  under  the  chin,  you 
would;  and  asketl  me  if  I  thought  I  could  love 
an  old  fellow,  who  would  deny  me  nothing 
— didn't  you  ? 

Sir  P.  Yes,  yes ;  and  you  were  as  kind  and 
attentive — 

Ladj/  T.  Ay,  so  I  was ;  and  would  always 
take  your  part,  when  my  acquaintance  used  to 
abuse  you,  and  turn  you  into  ridicule. 

Sir  P.  Indeed ! 

Lady  T.  Ay,  and  when  my  cousin  Sophy 
has  called  you  a  stift',  peevish,  old  bachelor, 
and  laughed  at  me  for  thinking  of  marrying 
one  who  might  be  my  father,  I  have  always 
defended  you,  and  said  I  didn't  think  you  so 
ugly  by  any  means. 

Sir  P.  Thank  you. 

Lady  T.  And  I  dared  say  you'd  make  a 
very  good  sort  of  husband. 

Sir  P.  And  you  prophesied  right ;  and  we 
shall  now  be  the  happiest  couple — 

Lady  T.  And  never  ditfer  again? 

Sir  P.  No,  never ;  though  at  the  same  time, 
indeed,  my  dear  Lady  Teazle,  you  must  watch 
your  temper  very  seriously;  for  in  all  our  little 
quarrels,  my  dear,  if  you  recollect,  my  love, 
you  always  begin  first. 

Lady  T.  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear  Sir 
Peter :  indeed,  you  always  give  the  provoca- 
tion. 

Sir  P.  Now  see,  my  angel !  take  care :  con- 
tradicting isn't  the  way  to  keep  friends. 

Lady  T.  Then  don't  you  begin  it,  my  love. 

Sir  P.  There,  now ;  you — you  are  going  on. 
You  don't  perceive,  my  life,  that  you  are  just 
doing  the  very  thing  which  you  know  always 
makes  me  angry. 

Lady  T.  Nay,  you  know,  if  you  will  be 
angry  without  any  reason,  my  dear — 

Sir  P.  There !  now  you  want  to  quarrel 
again. 

Lady  T.  No,  I  am  sure  I  don't;  but  if  you 
will  be  so  peevish — 

Sir  P.  There  now,  who  begins  first? 

Lady  T.  Why,  you,  to  be  sure.  I  said  noth- 
ing :  but  there's  no  bearing  your  temper. 

Sir  P.  No,  no,  madam ;  the  fault's  in  your 
own  temper. 

Liady  T.  Ay,  you  are  just  what  my  cousin 
Sophy  said  you  would  be. 

Sir  P.  Your  cousin  Sophy  is  a  forward, 
impertinent  gj'psy. 

Lady  T.  You  are  a  great  bear,  I'm  sure,  to 
abuse  my  relations.  i 


Sir  P.  Now,  may  all  the  plagues  of  marriage 
be  doubled  on  me,  if  ever  I  try  to  be  friends 
with  you  any  more. 

Lady  T.  So  much  the  better. 

Sir  P.  No,  no,  madam ;  'tis  evident  you 
never  cared  a  pin  for  me,  and  I  was  a  madman 
to  marry  you  :  a  pert,  rural  coquette,  that  had 
refused  half  the  honest  'squires  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. 

Lady  T.  And  I  am  sure  I  was  a  fool  to 
marry  you :  an  old,  dangling  bachelor,  who 
was  single  at  fifty,  only  because  he  never  could 
meet  with  any  one  that  would  have  him. 

Sir  P.  Ay,  ay,  madam ;  but  you  were  pleased 
enough  to  listen  to  me :  you  never  had  sucli 
an  offer  before. 

Lady  T.  No !  didn't  I  refuse  Sir  Tivy  Ter- 
rier, who,  everybody  said,  would  have  been  a 
better  match  ?  for  his  estate  is  just  as  good  as 
yours,  and  he  has  broken  liis  neck  since  we 
have  been  married. 

Sir  P.  I  have  done  with  you,  madam.  You 
are  an  unfeeling,  ungrateful — but  there's  an 
end  of  everything.  I  believe  you  capable  of 
everything  that  is  bad.  Yes,  madam,  I  now 
believe  the  reports  relative  to  you  and  Charles, 
madam.  Yes,  madam,  you  and  Chai-les  are — 
not  without  grounds — 

Lady  T.  Take  care,  Sir  Peter;  you  had 
better  not  insinuate  any  such  thing.  I'll  not 
be  suspected  without  cause,  I  promise  you. 

Sir  P.  Very  well,  madam ;  very  well.  A 
separate  maintenance  as  soon  as  you  please. 
Yes,  madam,  or  a  divorce.  I'll  make  an  ex- 
ample of  myself  for  the  benefit  of  all  old  bach- 
elors.    Let  us  separate,  madam. 

Lady  T.  Agreed,  agreed !  And  now,  my 
dear  Sir  Peter,  we  are  of  a  mind  once  more, 
we  may  be  the  happiest  couple — and  never 
differ  again,  you  know.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  "Well, 
you  are  going  to  be  in  a  passion,  I  see,  and  I 
shall  only  interrupt  you — so,  bye,  bye  ! 

[Eont. 

Sir  P.  Plagues  and  tortures  !  Can't  I  make 
her  angry  either?  Oh  !  I  am  the  most  miser- 
able fellow  !  but  I'll  not  bear  her  presuming 
to  keep  her  temper :  no ;  she  may  break  my 
heart,  but  she  sha'n't  keep  her  temper. 


AN   ART    SALE. 

(from    "the   school   for   SCxVNDAL.") 

[Charles  Surface,  a  spendthrift;  Careless,  his 
friend.  His  uncle  Sir  Oliver  Surface,  who 
intends  making  him  his  heir,  visits  him  in 


286 


RICHAED   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN. 


the  character  of  the  broker  ]VIi-.  Premium, 
accompauied  by  Moses  a  money-lender.  Hav- 
ing been  abroad  for  years,  Sir  Oliver  is  un- 
known to  his  nephew.] 

The  Picture  Room. 

Charles.  Walk  in,  gentlemen ;  pray  walk  in ; 
here  they  are,  the  family  of  the  Surfaces,  up 
to  the  Couqiiest. 

Sir  0.  And,  in  my  opinion,  a  goodly  collec- 
tion. 

Charles.  Ay,  ay,  these  are  done  in  the  true 
spirit  of  portrait- painting :  no  volontier  grace 
or  expression.  Not  like  the  works  of  your 
modern  Raphaels,  who  give  you  the  strongest 
resemblance,  yet  contrive  to  make  your  por- 
trait independent  of  you;  so  that  you  may 
sink  the  original,  and  not  hurt  the  picture. 
No,  no;  the  merit  of  these  is  the  inveterate 
likeness;  all  stiff  and  awkward  as  the  origi- 
nals, and  like  nothing  in  human  nature  be- 
sides. 

Sir  0.  Ah  !  we  shall  never  see  such  figures 
of  men  again. 

Charles.  I  hope  not.  Well,  you  see,  Master 
Premium,  what  a  domestic  character  I  am; 
here  I  sit  of  an  evening  surrounded  by  my 
family.  But,  come,  get  to  your  pulpit,  Mr. 
Auctioneer ;  here's  an  old  gouty  chair  of  my 
grandfather's  will  answer  the  purpose. 

Care.  Ay,  ay ;  this  will  do.  But,  Charles, 
I  have  not  a  hammer;  and  what's  an  auc- 
tioneer without  his  hammer? 

Charles.  Egad!  that's  true :  {taking  pedigree 
doivn)  what  parchment  have  we  here?  Oh! 
our  genealogy  in  full.  Here,  Careless,  you 
shall  have  no  common  bit  of  mahogany :  here's 
the  family  tree  for  you,  you  rogue  !  this  shall 
be  your  hammer,  and  now  you  may  knock 
down  my  ancestors  with  their  own  pedigree. 

Sir  0.  What  an  unnatural  rogue !  an  ex 
post  facto  parricide!  {Aside.) 

Care.  Yes,  yes ;  here's  a  list  of  your  genera- 
tion, indeed ;  'faith !  Charles,  this  is  the  most 
convenient  thing  you  could  have  found  for 
the  business,  for  'twill  not  only  serve  as  a 
hammer,  but  a  catalogue  into  the  bai'gain. 
Come,  begin  :  a-going,  a-going,  a-going ! 

Charles.  Bravo,  Careless !  Well,  here's  my 
great  uncle.  Sir  Richard  Raveline,  a  marvellous 
good  general  in  his  day,  I  assure  you.  He 
served  in  all  the  Duke  of  Marlborough's  wars, 
and  got  that  cut  over  his  eye  at  the  battle  of 
Malplaquet.  What  say  you,  Mr.  Premium? 
look  at  him  :  there's  a  hero,  not  cut  out  of  his 
feathers,  as  your  modern  clipped  captains  are, 


but  enveloped  in  wig  and  regimentals,  as  a 
general  should  be.     What  do  you  bid? 

Sir  0.  {Apart  to  Moses.)  Bid  him  speak. 

Moses.  Mr.  Premivim  would  have  you  speak. 

Charles.  Why,  then,  he  shall  have  him  for 
ten  pounds ;  and  I'm  sure  that's  not  dear  for 
a  statf-ofhcer. 

Sir  0.  Heaven  deliver  me  !  his  famous  uncle 
Richard  for  ten  pounds !  {Aside.)  Well,  sir,  I 
take  him  at  that. 

Cliarles.  Careless,  knock  down  my  uncle 
Richard.  Here,  now,  is  a  maiden  sister  of 
his,  my  great  aimt  Deborah ;  done  by  Kneller 
in  his  best  manner,  and  esteemed  a  veiy 
formidable  likeness.  There  she  is,  you  see,  a 
shepherdess  feeding  her  flock.  You  shall  have 
her  for  five  pounds  ten :  the  sheep  are  worth 
the  money. 

Sir  0.  Ah !  poor  Deboiah !  a  woman  who 
set  such  a  value  on  herself !  {Aside.)  Five 
pounds  ten :  she's  mine. 

Charles.  Knock  down  my  aunt  Deborah, 
Careless  ! — This,  now,  is  a  grandfather  of  my 
mother's,  a  learned  judge,  well  known  on  the 
western  circuit.  What  do  you  rate  him  at, 
Moses? 

Moses.  Four  guineas. 

Charles.  Four  guineas  !  Gad's  life  !  you 
don't  bid  me  the  price  of  his  wig.  Mr.  Pre- 
mium, you  have  more  respect  for  the  wool- 
sack; do  let  us  knock  his  lordshijj  down  at 
fifteen. 

Sir  0.  By  all  means. 

Care.  Gone ! 

Charles.  And  there  are  two  brothei-s  of  his, 
William  and  Walter  Blunt,  Esquii-es,  both 
members  of  parliament,  and  noted  speakers ; 
and  what's  very  exteaordinary,  I  believe  this 
is  the  fii-st  time  they  were  ever  bought  or  sold. 

Sir  0.  That  is  very  extraordinary,  indeed  ! 
I'll  take  them  at  your  owm  price,  for  the  honour 
of  parliament. 

Care.  Well  said,  little  Premium  !  I'll  knock 
them  down  at  forty. 

Charles.  Here's  a  jolly  fellow^ — I  don't  know 
what  relation,  but  he  was  Mayor  of  Norwich : 
take  him  at  eight  pounds. 

Sir  0.  No,  no ;  six  will  do  for  the  mayor. 

Charles. Come,  make  it  guineas,  and  I'll  throw 
the  two  aldermen  there  into  the  bargain. 

Sir  0.  They're  mine. 

Charles.  Careless,  knock  down  the  mayor 
and  aldermen.  But  plague  on't !  we  shall  he 
all  day  retailing  in  this  manner  :  do  let  us 
deal  wholesale:  what  say  you,  little  Premium? 
Give  me  tliree  hundi-ed  pounds  for  the  rest  of 
the  family  in  the  lump. 


EICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN. 


287 


Care.  Ay,  ay,  that  will  be  the  best  way. 
Sir  0.  Well,  well ;  anything  to  accommo- 
date you;  they  are  mine.     But  there  is  one 
portrait  which  you  have  always  passed  over. 

Care.  What,  that  ill-looking  little  fellow 
over  the  settee ! 

Sir  0.  Yes,  sir,  I  mean  that ;  though  I  don't 
think  him  so  ill-looking  a  little  fellow,  by  any 
means. 

Charles.  What,  that  ?  Oh  !  that's  ray  uncle 
Oliver ;  'twas  done  before  he  went  to  India. 

Care.  Your  uncle  Oliver !  Gad  !  then,  you'U 
never  be  friends,  Charles.  That,  now,  to  me, 
is  as  stern  a  looking  rogue  as  ever  I  saw ;  an 
unforgiving  eye,  and  a  d — — d  disinheriting 
countenance !  an  inveterate  knave,  depend 
on't.     Don't  you  think  so,  little  Premium? 

{Slapping  him  on  the  shoulder.) 

Sir  0.  Upon  my  soul,  sir,  I  do  not ;  I  think 
it  as  honest  a  looking  face  as  any  in  the  room, 
dead  or  alive ;  but  I  suppose  uncle  Oliver  goes 
with  the  rest  of  the  lumber? 

Charles.  No,  hang  it !  I'll  not  part  with 
poor  Noll.  The  old  fellow  has  been  very  good 
to  me,  and,  egad  !  I'll  keep  his  picture  while 
I've  a  room  to  put  it  in. 

Sir  0.  The  rogue's  my  nephew  after  all. 
{Aside.)  But,  sir,  I  have  somehow  taken  a 
fancy  to  that  picture. 

Charles.  I  am  sorry  for  it,  for  you  certainly 
will  not  have  it.  Oons !  haven't  you  got 
enough  of  them? 

Sir  0.  I  forgive  him  everything.  {Aside.) 
But,  sir,  when  I  take  a  whim  in  my  head  I 
don't  value  money.  I'll  give  you  as  much  for 
that  as  for  all  the  rest. 

Charles.  Don't  tease  me,  master  broker;  I 
tell  you  I'll  not  part  with  it,  and  there's  an 
end  of  it. 

Sir  0.  How  like  his  father  the  dog  is ! — 
{Aside.)  Well,  well,  I  have  done.- — I  did  not 
perceive  it  before,  but  I  think  I  never  saw 
such  a  resemblance.  {Aside.)  —  Here  is  a 
draught  for  your  si;m. 

Charles.  Wliy,  'tis  for  eight  hundred  pounds. 

Sir  0.  You  will  not  let  Sir  Oliver  go? 

Charles.  Zounds !  no ;  I  tell  you  once  more. 

Sir  0.  Then  never  mind  the  diffei'ence ; 
we'll  balance  that  another  time ;  but  give  me 
your  hand  on  the  bargain ;  you  are  an  honest 
fellow,  Charles — I  beg  pardon,  sir,  for  being 
so  free.     Come,  Moses. 

Charles.  Egad  !  this  is  a  whimsical  old  fel- 
low !  But,  hark  ye  !  Premium,  you'll  prepare 
lodgings  for  these  gentlemen  ? 

Sir  0.  Yes,  yes ;  I'll  send  for  them  in  a  day 
or  two. 


Charles.  But,  hold !  do  now  send  a  genteel 
conveyance  for  them ;  for  I  assure  you,  they 
were  most  of  them  used  to  ride  in  their  own 
carriages. 

Sir  0.  I  will,  I  will ;  for  all  but  Oliver. 

Charles.  Ay,  all  but  the  little  nabob. 

Sir  0.  You're  fixed  on  that? 

Charles.  Pei-emptorily. 

Sir  0.  A  dear,  extravagant  rogue !  {Aside.) 
Good  day  !  Come,  Moses.  Let  me  hear  now 
who  dares  call  him  profligate. 


SIR   FRETFUL   PLAGIARY'S   PLAY. 

(FROM    "THE    critic") 

Sir  F.  Sincerely,  then,  you  do  like  the 
piece  ? 

Sneer.  Wonderfully  I 

Sir  P.  But  come,  now,  there  must  be  some- 
thing that  you  think  might  be  mended,  eh? 
Mr.  Dangle,  has  nothing  struck  you  ? 

Dan.  Why,  faith,  it  is  but  an  ungi-acious 
thing  for  the  most  part  to — 

Sir  F.  With  most  authors  it  is  just  so  in- 
deed ;  they  are  in  general  strangely  tenacious ; 
but,  for  my  part,  I  am  never  so  well  j^leased 
as  when  a  judicious  critic  points  out  any  defect 
to  me ;  for  what  is  the  purpose  of  showing  a 
work  to  a  friend,  if  you  don't  mean  to  profit 
by  his  opinion? 

Sneer.  Very  true.  Why,  then,  though  I 
seriously  admire  the  piece  upon  the  whole,  yet 
there  is  one  small  objection,  which,  if  you'll 
give  me  leave,  I'll  mention. 

Sir  F.  Sir,  you  can't  oblige  me  more. 

Sneer.  I  think  it  wants  incident. 

Sir  F.  Good  God  ! — you  surprise  me  ! — 
wants  incident ! 

Sneer.  Yes;  I  own  I  think  the  incidents 
are  too  few. 

Sir  F.  Good  God  !  Believe  me,  Mr.  Sneer, 
there  is  no  person  for  whose  judgment  I  have 
a  more  implicit  deference,  but  I  protest  to 
you,  Mr.  Sneer,  I  am  only  apprehensive  that 
the  incidents  are  too  crowded.  My  dear 
Dangle,  how  does  it  strike  you  ? 

Ban.  Really,  I  can't  agree  with  my  frieiul 
Sneer.  I  think  the  plot  quite  sufficient,  and 
the  four  first  acts  by  many  degrees  the  best 
I  ever  read  or  saw  in  my  life.  If  I  might 
venture  to  suggest  anything,  it  is  that  the 
interest  rather  falls  off  in  the  fifth. 

Sir  F.  Rises,  I  believe  you  mean,  sir. 

Dan.  No ;  I  don't,  upon  my  word. 

Sir  F.  Yes,  yes,  you  do,  upon  my  soul ;  it 


288 


EICHAKD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN. 


certainly  don't  fall  off,  I  assure  you ;  no,  no, 
it  don't  fall  off. 

Dan.  Now,  Mrs.  Dangle,  didn't  you  say  it 
struck  you  in  the  same  light? 

Mrs.  D.  No,  indeed,  I  did  not;  I  did  not 
see  a  fault  in  any  part  of  the  play,  from  the 
beginning  to  the  end. 

Sir  F.  Upon  my  soul,  the  women  ai-e  the 
best  judges  after  all. 

Mrs.  I).  Or  if  I  made  any  objection,  I  am 
sure  it  was  to  nothing  in  the  piece ;  but  that 
I  was  afraid  it  was,  on  the  whole,  a  little  too 
long. 

Sir  F.  Pray,  madam,  do  you  speak  as  to 
duration  of  time;  or  do  you  mean  that  the 
story  is  tediously  spun  out  ? 

Mrs.  D.  O  lud !  no.  I  speak  only  with 
reference  to  the  usual  length  of  acting  plays. 

Sir  F.  Then  I  am  very  happy, — very  happy 
indeed, — because  the  play  is  a  short  play,  a 
remarkably  short  play :  I  should  not  venture 
to  differ  with  a  lady  on  a  point  of  taste ;  but, 
on  these  occasions,  the  watch,  you  know,  is 
the  critic. 

Mrs.  D.  Then,  I  suppose,  it  must  have  been 
Mr.  Dangle's  di-awling  manner  of  reading  it 
to  me. 

Sir  F.  O !  if  Mr.  Dangle  read  it !  that's 
quite  another  affair ;  but  I  assure  you,  Mrs. 
Dangle,  the  first  evening  you  can  spare  me 
three  hours  and  a  half,  I'll  undertake  to  read 
you  the  whole  from  beginning  to  end,  with 
the  prologue  and  epilogue,  and  allow  time  for 
the  music  between  the  acts. 

Mrs.  D.  I  hope  to  see  it  on  the  stage  next. 

{Exit. 

Dan.  Well,  Sir  Fretful,  I  wish  you  may  be 
able  to  get  rid  as  easily  of  the  newspaper  criti- 
cisms as  you  do  of  ours. 

Sir  F.  The  newspapers  ! — sir,  they  are  the 
most  villanous — licentious — abominable — in- 
fernal— not  that  I  ever  read  them — no;  I 
make  it  a  rule  never  to  look  into  a  newspaper. 

Dan.  You  are  quite  right;  for  it  certainly 
must  luirt  an  author  of  delicate  feelings  to  see 
the  liberties  they  take. 

Sir  F.  No  ;  quite  the  contrary  :  their  abuse 
is,  in  fact,  the  best  panegyric ;  I  like  it  of  aU 
things. — An  author's  reputation  is  only  in 
danger  from  their  support. 

Sneer.  Why,  that's  true ;  and  that  attack 
now  on  you  the  other  day — 

Sir  F.  What?   where? 

Dan.  Ay!  you  mean  in  a  pai)er  of  Tliurs- 
day  ;  it  was  completely  ill-natured,  to  be  sure. 

Sir  F.  O  !  so  much  the  better ;  ha !  ha !  ha ! 
— I  wouldn't  have  it  otherwise. 


Dan.  Certainly  it  is  only  to  be  laughed  at ; 
for — 

Sir  F.  You  don't  happen  to  recollect  what 
the  fellow  said,  do  you? 

Sneer.  Pray,  Dangle;  Sir  Fretful  seems  a 
little  anxious — 

Sir  F.  O  lud,  no  !  anxious, — not  I, — not 
the  least, — I — but  one  may  as  well  hear,  you 
know. 

Dan.  Sneer,  do  i/oic  recollect?  Make  out 
something.  (Aside.) 

Sneer.  I  will.  {To  Dangle.)  Yes,  yes,  I 
remember  perfectly. 

Sir  F.  Well,  and  pray  now — not  that  it 
signifies — what  might  the  gentleman  say? 

Sneer.  Why,  he  roundly  asserts  that  you 
have  not  the  slightest  invention  or  original 
genius  whatever;  though  you  are  the  greatest 
traducer  of  all  other  authors  living. 

Sir  F.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  very  good  ! 

Sneer.  That  as  to  comedy,  you  have  not  one 
idea  of  your  own,  he  believes,  even  in  your 
commonplace  book,  where  stray  jokes  and 
pilfered  witticisms  are  kept  with  as  much 
method  as  the  ledger  of  the  lost  and  stolen 
office. 

Sir  F.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  very  pleasant ! 

Sneer.  Nay,  that  you  are  so  unlucky  as  not 
to  have  the  skill  even  to  steal  with  taste : — 
but  that  you  glean  from  the  refuse  of  obscure 
volumes,  where  more  judicious  plagiarists  have 
been  before  you ;  so  that  the  body  of  your 
work  is  a  composition  of  dregs  and  sediments, 
like  a  bad  tavern's  woret  wine. 

Sir  F.  Ha,  ha  1 

Sneer.  In  your  more  serious  efforts,  he  says, 
your  bombast  would  be  less  intolerable  if  the 
thoughts  were  ever  suited  to  the  expression; 
but  the  homeliness  of  the  sentiment  stares 
through  the  fantastic  incumbrance  of  its  fine 
language,  like  a  clown  in  one  of  the  new  uni- 
forms. 

Sir  F.  Ha,  ha ! 

Sneer.  That  your  occasional  tropes  and 
flowers  suit  the  general  coarseness  of  your 
style,  as  tambour  sprigs  would  a  ground  of 
linsey-woolsey ;  while  your  imitations  of  Shak- 
spere  resemble  the  mimicry  of  Falstaff 's  page, 
and  are  about  as  near  the  standard  of  the  ori- 
ginal. 

Sir  F.  Ha ! 

Sneer.  In  short,  that  even  the  finest  passages 
you  steal  are  of  no  service  to  you ;  for  the 
poverty  of  your  own  language  prevents  their 
assimilating,  so  that  they  lie  on  the  surface 
like  lumps  of  marl  on  a  barren  moor,  encimi- 
bering  what  it  is  not  in  their  power  to  fertilize. 


RICHAED  BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN. 


289 


Sir  F.  {After great  agitation.)  Now,  another 
person  would  be  vex'd  at  tliis. 

Sneer.  Oh  !  but  I  wouldn't  have  told  you, 
only  to  divert  you. 

Sir  F.  I  know  it.  1  am  diverted ;  ha,  ha, 
ha! — not  the  lejist  invention!  ha,  ha,  ha!  very 
good — very  good  ! 

Sneer.  Yes, — no  genius  !  ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Dan.  A  severe  rogue  !  ha,  ha,  ha !  but  you 
are  quite  right.  Sir  Fretful,  never  to  read  such 
nonsense. 

Sir  F.  To  be  sure ; — for  if  there  is  anything 
to  one's  praise,  it  is  a  foolish  vanity  to  be 
gratified  at  it,  and  if  it  is  abuse, — why,  one  is 

always  sure  to  hear  of  it  from  some  d d 

good-natured  friend  or  other ! 


THE   DESOLATION   OF   OUDE. 

(FROM   SPEECH   ON  IMPEACHMENT  OF   HASTINGS.) 

Had  a  stranger  at  this  time  gone  into  the 
province  of  Oude,  ignorant  of  what  had  hap- 
pened since  the  death  of  Sujah  Dowla,  that 
man,  who,  with  a  savage  heart,  had  still  great 
lines  of  character,  and  who,  with  all  his  fero- 
city in  war,  had  still,  with  a  cultivating  hand, 
preserved  to  his  country  the  riches  which  it 
derived  from  benignant  skies  and  a  prolific 
soil — if  this  stranger,  ignorant  of  all  that  had 
happened  in  the  short  interval,  and  observing 
the  wide  and  general  devastation,  and  all  the 
horrors  of  the  scene — of  plains  unclothed  and 
brown — of  vegetables  burned  up  and  extin- 
guished— of  villages  depopulated  and  in  ruins 
— of  temples  unroofed  and  perishing — of  reser- 
voirs broken  down  and  dry, — he  would  natur- 
ally inquire,  what  war  has  thus  laid  waste  the 
fertile  fields  of  this  once  beautiful  and  opulent 
country— what  civil  dissensions  have  hap- 
pened, thus  to  tear  asunder  and  separate  the 
happy  societies  that  once  possessed  those  vil- 
lages— what  disputed  succession — what  reli- 
gious rage  has,  with  unholy  violence,  demol- 
ished those  temples,  and  disturbed  fervent 
but  unobtruding  l>iety,  in  the  exercise  of  its 
duties? — What  merciless  enemy  has  thus 
spread  the  horrors  of  fire  and  sword — what 
severe  visitation  of  providence  has  dried  up 
the  fountain,  and  taken  from  the  face  of  the 
earth  every  vestige  of  verdure? — Or  rather, 
what  monsters  have  stalked  over  the  country, 
tainting  and  poisoning,  with  pestiferous  breath, 
what  the  voracious  appetite  could  not  devour? 
To  such  questions,  what  must  be  the  answer? 
Vol.  I. 


No  wars  have  lavaged  these  lands,  and  de- 
populated these  villages  —  no  civil  discords 
have  been  felt^no  disputed  succession — no 
religious  rage — no  merciless  enemy — no  afflic- 
tion of  providence,  which,  while  it  scourged 
for  the  moment,  cut  off  the  sources  of  resusci- 
tation— no  voracious  and  poisoning  monsters 
■ — no,  all  this  has  been  accomplished  by  the 
friendship,  generosity,  and  kindness  of  the 
English  nation.  They  have  embraced  us 
with  their  protecting  arms,  and,  lo !  those  are 
the  fruits  of  their  alliance.  What,  then,  shall 
we  be  told,  that  under  such  circumstances,  the 
exasperated  feelings  of  a  whole  people,  thus 
goaded  and  spurred  on  to  clamour  and  resist- 
ance, were  excited  by  the  poor  and  feeble  in- 
fluence of  the  begums !  When  we  hear  the 
description  of  the  paroxysm,  fever,  and  deli- 
rium into  which  despair  had  thrown  the 
wretched  natives,  when  on  the  banks  of  the 
polluted  Ganges,  panting  for  death,  they  tore 
more  widely  open  the  lips  of  their  gaping 
wounds  to  accelerate  their  dissolution,  and, 
while  their  blood  was  issuing,  presented  their 
ghastly  eyes  to  Heaven,  breathing  their  last 
and  fervent  prayer,  that  the  dry  earth  might 
not  be  sutiered  to  drink  their  blood,  but  that 
it  might  rise  up  to  the  throne  of  God,  and 
rouse  the  eternal  Providence  to  avenge  the 
wrongs  of  their  country ;  will  it  be  said  that 
this  was  brought  about  by  the  incantations  of 
those  begums  in  their  secluded  zenana?  or 
that  they  could  inspire  this  enthusiasm  and 
this  despair  into  the  breasts  of  a  people  who 
felt  no  grievance  and  had  suffered  no  torture  ? 
What  motive,  then,  could  have  such  influence 
in  their  bosom?  What  motive?  That  which 
nature,  the  common  parent,  plants  in  the 
bosom  of  man,  and  which,  though  it  may  be 
less  active  in  the  Indian  than  in  the  English- 
man, is  still  congenial  with,  and  makes  i)art 
of  his  being — that  feeling  which  tells  him 
that  man  was  never  made  to  be  the  property 
of  man;  but  that  when,  through  pride  and 
insolence  of  power,  one  human  creature  dares 
to  tyrannize  over  another,  it  is  a  power 
usurped,  and  resistance  is  a  duty — that  feel- 
ing which  tells  him  that  all  power  is  delegated 
for  the  good,  not  for  the  injury  of  the  people, 
and  that  when  it  is  converted  from  the  original 
purpose  the  compact  is  broken,  and  the  right 
is  to  be  resumed — that  principle  which  tells 
him  that  resistance  to  power  usurped  is  not 
merely  a  duty  which  he  owes  to  himself  and 
to  his  neighbour,  but  a  duty  which  he  owes 
to  his  God,  in  asserting  and  maintaining  the 
rank  which  he  gave  him  in  the  creation  !^to 

19 


290 


MRS.   MARY   TIGHE. 


that  common  God,  who,  where  he  gives  the 
form  of  man,  whatever  may  be  the  complexion, 
gives  also  the  feelings  and  the  rights  of  man^ — 
that  principle,  which  neither  the  rudeness  of 
ignorance  can  stifle,  nor  the  enervation  of 
refinement  extinguish ! — that  principle,  which 
makes  it  base  for  a  man  to  suffer  when  he 
ought  to  act,  which,  tending  to  preserve  to  the 
species  the  original  designations  of  providence, 
spurns  at  the  arrogant  distinctions  of  man, 
and  vindicates  the  independent  quality  of  his 
race. 


DRINKING   SONG. 

Here's  to  the  maiden  of  bashful  fifteen, 

Here's  to  the  widow  of  fifty; 
Here's  to  the  flaunting  extravagant  quean, 
And  here's  to  the  housewife  that's  thrifty: 
Chorus.   Let  the  toast  pass, 
Drink  to  the  lass, 
I'll  warrant  she'll  prove  an  excuse  for  the  glass. 

Here's  to  the  charmer,  whose  dimples  we  prize. 
And  now  to  the  maid  who  has  none,  sir. 


Here's  to  the  girl  Avith  a  pair  of  blue  eyes, 
And  here's  to  the  nymph  with  but  one,  sir. 
Let  the  toast  pass,  &c. 

Here's  to  the  maid  with  a  bosom  of  snow 
And  to  her  that's  as  brown  as  a  berry; 

Here's  to  the  wife  with  a  face  full  of  woe, 
And  now  to  the  girl  that  is  merry: 
Let  the  toast  pass,  &c. 

For  let  'em  be  clumsy,  or  let  'em  be  slim, 
Young  or  ancient,  I  care  not  a  feather; 

So  fill  a  pint  bumper  quite  up  to  brim, 
And  let  us  e'en  toast  them  together: 
Let  the  toast  pass,  &c. 


BY   CCELIA'S   ARBOUR 

By  Coelia's  arbour,  all  the  night, 

Hang,  humid  wreath, — the  lover's  vow; 

And  haply  at  the  morning's  light 

My  love  will  twine  thee  round  her  brow. 

And  if  upon  her  bosom  bright 

Some  drops  of  dew  should  fall  from  thee: 
Tell  her  they  are  not  drops  of  night, 

But  tears  of  sorrow  shed  by  me. 


MRS.     MARY    TIGHE. 


Born  1772  —  Died  1810. 


[Mrs.  Tighe  was  born  in  Dublin,  October  9, 
1772.  Her  father  was  the  Rev.  W.  Blachford, 
and  her  mother  a  daughter  of  William  Tighe 
of  Rosanna,  in  the  county  of  Wicklow.  From 
a  child  she  was  remarkable  for  her  taste,  sen- 
sibility, and  delicacy  of  feeling,  and  an  absence 
of  that  light-heartedness  which  is  usual  in 
healthy  children.  Her  constitution  was  deli- 
cate in  the  extreme,  and  in  her  countenance 
was  visible  that  sweet  light  of  genius  and 
spirituelle  beauty  only  seen  in  those  whom  the 
gods  love  and  who  die  young.  She  was  mar- 
ried in  1793  to  her  cousin  Mr.  Henry  Tighe,  but 
the  union  is  said  not  to  have  been  a  happy  one. 
Sad  family  afiiictions  and  bereavements  acting 
on  her  sensitive  mind  served  to  hasten  her 
prematm-e  decline.  But  however  weak  her 
frame  might  be,  her  mind  was  active,  and  she 
wrote  many  poems,  among  others  the  well- 
known  Psyche,  or  the  Legend  of  Love,  founded 
on  the  classic  fable  of  the  loves  of  Cupid  and 
Psyche,  a  poem  full  of  the  refinement  and 
tenderness  of  its  author.  "  The  Lil}' "  is  perhaps 


the  most  popular  among  her  minor  pieces. 
Unfortunately  her  retiring  modesty  deprived 
the  world  of  the  greater  part  of  her  produc- 
tions, and  the  remainder  would  have  been 
almost  overlooked  but  for  Sir  James  Mac- 
kintosh, Dr.  Moir  (Delta),  and  other  competent 
judges,  whose  favourable  opinions  first  brought 
them  into  notice. 

After  a  lengthened  period  of  extreme  de- 
bility of  a  most  distressing  kind,  IVIrs.  Tighe 
died  at  "Woodstock,  county  of  Kilkenny,  on 
March  24,  1810,  and  was  buried  in  the  church- 
yard of  Inistioge.  A  monument  by  Flax- 
man  has  been  erected  over  her  remains,  ;md 
Mrs.  Hemans  has  commemorated  her  worth  in 
the  beautiful  lines  "  The  Grave  of  a  Poetess." 
The  love  and  grief  of  Mrs.  Tighe's  friends  may 
also  be  gathered  from  a  poem  written  by 
Thomas  Moore,  in  which  he  says  of  her — 

"  So,  veil'd  beneath  the  simple  guise 
Thy  radiant  genius  shone, 
A  nd  that  which  charmed  all  other  eyeo 
Seem'd  worthlass  in  thj'  own,  Mary ! 


MRS.   MAIIY   TIGHE. 


291 


"  If  souls  could  always  dwell  above, 
Tliou  ne'er  hadst  left  that  sphere  ; 
Or  could  we  keep  the  souls  we  love, 
Wo  ne'er  had  lost  thee  here,  Mary ! 

' '  Though  many  a  gifted  mind  we  meet. 
Though  fairest  forms  we  see, 
To  live  with  them  is  far  less  sweet 
Than  to  remember  thee,  Mary  !  "j 


PEAISE   OF   LOVE. 

(FROM    "PSYCHE.") 

[Psyche's  cliami)ion  assumes  the  command 
of  Passion,  who  appears  as  a  Lion.] 

Oh,  who  art  tliou  who  darest  of  Love  complain? 
He  is  a  gentle  spirit  and  injures  none ! 
His  foes  are  ours;  from  them  the  bitter  pain. 
The  keen,  deep  anguish,  the  heart-rending  groan. 
Which  in  his  milder  reign  are  never  known. 
His  tears  are  softer  than  the  April  showers, 
White-handed  Innocence  supports  his  throne, 
His  sighs  are  sweet  as  breath  of  earliest  flowers, 
Affection  guides  his  steps,  and  peace  protects  liis 
bowers. 

But  scarce  admittance  he  on  earth  can  find, 
Opposed  by  vanity,  by  fraud  ensnared; 
Suspicion  frights  him  from  the  gloomy  mind, 
And  jealousy  in  vain  his  smiles  has  shared. 
Whose  sullen  frown  the  gentle  godhead  scared ; 
From  Passion's  rapid  blaze  in  haste  he  flies. 
His  wings  alone  the  fiercer  flame  has  spared ; 
From  him  ambition  turns  his  scornful  eyes, 
And  avarice,  slave  to  gold,  a  generous  lord  denies. 

But  chief  inconstancy  his  power  destroys; 
To  mock  his  lovely  form,  an  idle  train 
With  magic  skill  she  dressed  in  transient  toys; 
By  these  the  selfish  votaries  she  can  gain 
Whom  Love's  more  simple  bands  could  ne'er 

detain. 
Ah!  how  shall  Psyche  through  such  mortal  foes 
The  fated  end  of  all  her  toils  attain  ? 
Sadly  she  ponders  o'er  her  hopeless  woes, 
Till  on  the  pillowy  turf  she  sinks  to  short  repose. 

But  as  the  careless  lamb  whom  playful  chance, 
Thoughtless  of  danger,  has  enticed  to  rove, 
Amidst  her  gambols  casts  a  sudden  glance 
Where  lurks  her  wily  foe  within  the  grove. 
Anxious  to  fly,  but  still  afraid  to  move. 
All  hopeless  of  escape — so  looks  the  maid, 
Such  dread  her  half-awakened  senses  prove. 
When  roused  from  sleep  before  her  eves  dis- 
mayed, 
A  knight  all  armed  appears  close  'mid  the  em- 
bowering shade. 


Trembling  she  gazed,  until  the  stranger  knight 
Tempering  with  mildest  courtesy,  the  awe 
Which  majesty  inspired,  low  in  her  sight 
(Jbeisance  made;  nor  would  he  nearer  draw. 
Till,  half  .subdued  surprise  and  fear,  he  saw 
Pale  terror  yielding  to  the  ro.sy  grace. 
The  pure  congealed  blood  begin  to  thaw. 
And  flowing  through  her  crystal  veins  apace 
Suffuse  with  mantling   blush  her  mild  celestial 
face. 

Gently  approaching  then  with  fairest  speech 
He  proffered  service  to  the  lonely  dame. 
And  prayed  her  that  she  might  not  so  impeach 
The  honour  of  his  youth's  yet  .spotless  fame. 
As  aught  to  fear  which  might  his  knighthood 

shame; 
But  if  her  unprotected  steps  to  guard, 
The  glory  of  her  champion  he  might  claim. 
He  asked  no  other  guerdon  or  reward 
Than  what  bright  honour's  self  might  to  his  deeds 
award. 

Doubting  and  mu.sing  much  within  her  mind, 
With  half-suspicious,  half-confiding  eye. 
Awhile  she  stood;  her  thoughts  bewildered  find 
No  utterance,  unwilling  to  deny 
Such  proffered  aid,  yet  bashful  to  reply 
With  quick  assent,  since  though  concealed  his 

face 
Beneath  his  helm,  yet  might  she  well  espy 
And  in  each  fair  proportion  plainly  trace 
The  symmetry  of  form,  and  perfect  youthful  grace. 

Hard  were  it  to  describe  the  nameless  charm 
That  o'er  each  limb  in  every  action  played, 
The  softness  of  that  voice  which  could  disarm 
The  hand  of  fury  of  its  deadly  blade: 
In  shining  armour  was  the  youth  array'd. 
And  on  his  shield  a  bleeding  heart  he  bore, 
His  lofty  crest  light  plumes  of  azure  shade. 
There  shone  a  wounded  dragon  bathed  in  gore. 
And  bright  with  silver  beamed  the  silken  scarf  he 
wore. 

His  milk-white  steed  with  glittering  trappings 

blazed. 
Whose  reins  a  beauteous  boy  attendant  held, 
On  the  fair  squire  with  wonder  Psyche  gazed. 
For  .scarce  he  seemed  of  age  to  bear  the  shield. 
Far  less  a  ponderous  lance  or  .sword  to  wield  ; 
Yet  well  this  little  page  his  lord  had  served. 
His  youthful  arm  had  many  a  foe  repelled. 
His  watchful  eye  from  many  a  snare  preserved, 
Nor  ever  from  his  steps  in  any  danger  swerved. 

Graced  with  the  gift  of  a  perpetual  youth, 
No  lapse  of  years  had  power  his  form  to  change; 
Constance  was  named  the  boy,  whose  matchless 
truth. 


292 


MRS.   MARY  TIGHE. 


Though  oft  enticed  with  other  lords  to  range, 
Nor  fraud  nor  force  could  from  that  knight 

estrange; 
His  mantle  of  celestial  blue  was  made, 
And   its  bright   texture  wrought  with  art  so 

strange 
That  the  fresh  brilliant  gloss  could  never  fade, 
And  lustre  yet  unknown  to  Psyche's  eyes  dis- 
played. 

Thus  while  she  gazed,  behold,  with  horrid  roar 
A  lion  from  the  neighbouring  forest  rushed, 
A  golden  chain  around  his  neck  he  bore, 
Which  richly  glowing  with  carbuncles  blushed, 
While  his  fierce  eyeballs  fiery  rage  had  flushed: 
Forth  steps  the  youth  before  the  affrighted  fair. 
Who  in  his  mighty  paw  already  crushed 
Seems  in  the  terrors  of  her  wild  despair. 
And  her  mute  quivering  lips  a  death-like  paleness 
wear. 

But  scarce  the  kingly  beast  the  knight  beheld. 
When  crouching  low  submissive  at  his  feet, 
His  wrath  extinguished,  and  his  valour  quelled, 
He  seemed  with  reverence  and  obeisance  sweet 
Him  as  his  long-acknowledged  lord  to  greet. 
While  in  acceptance  of  the  new  command. 
Well  pleased  the  youth  received  the  homage  meet, 
Then  seized  the  splendid  chain  with  steady  hand 
Full  confident  to  rule,  and  every  foe  withstand. 

And,  when  at  length  recovered  from  her  fear, 
The  timid  Psyche  mounts  his  docile  steed. 
Much  prayed,  she  tells  to  his  attentive  ear 
(As  on  her  purposed  journey  they  proceed) 
The  doubtful  course  the  oracle  decreed: 
And  how,  observant  of  her  friendly  guide. 
She  still  pursued  its  flight  with  all  the  speed 
Her  fainting  strength  had  hitherto  supplied; 
What  pathless  wilds  she  crossed !     What  forests 
darkling  wide ! 

Which  having  heard  the  courteous  knight  began 
With  counsel  sweet  to  soothe  her  wounded  heart; 
Divinely  eloquent,  persuasion  ran 
The  herald  of  his  words  ere  they  depart 
His  lips,  which  well  might  confidence  impart. 
As  he  revealed  how  he  himself  was  bound 
By  solemn  vow,  that  neither  force  nor  art 
His  helmet  should  unloose,  till  he  had  found 
The  bower  of  happiness,  that  long-sought  fairy 
ground. 

"I  too  (he  said),  divided  from  my  love. 
The  offended  power  of  Venus  deprecate. 
Like  thee,  through  paths  untrodden,  sadly  rove 
In  search  of  that  fair  spot  prescribed  by  fate. 
The  blessed  term  of  my  afflicted  state, 
Where  I  the  mistress  of  my  soul  shall  find. 
For  whose  dear  sake  no  toil  to  me  seems  great, 


Nor  any  dangers  to  my  search  assigned 
Can  from  its  purpose  fright  my  ardent  longing 
mind. 

"P.syche !  thy  soft  and  sympathizing  heart 
Shall  share  the  rapture  of  thy  loyal  knight; 
He  too  in  thy  content  shall  bear  a  part, 
Blest  witness  of  thy  new  restored  delight ; 
My  vows  of  true  allegiance  here  I  plight, 
Ne'er  to  forsake  thee  till  thy  perils  end. 
Thy  steps  to  guard,  in  thy  protection  fight. 
By  counsel  aid,  and  by  my  arm  defend, 

And  prove  myself  in  all,  thy  champion  and  thy 
friend." 

So  on  they  went,  her  cheerless  heart  revived 
By  promised  succour  in  her  doubtful  way; 
And  much  of  hope  she  to  herself  derived. 
From  the  warm  eagerness  his  lips  display 
In  their  pursuit  to  suffer  no  delay: 

"And  sure  (she  softly  sighed),  my  dearest  lord. 
Thy  watchful  love  still  guides  me,  as  I  stray, 
Not  chance  alone  could  such  an  aid  afford, 

Lo !  beasts  of  prey  confess   the  heaven-assisted 
sword. " 


SYMPATHY. 


Wert  thou  sad,  I  would  beguile 
Thy  sadness  by  my  tender  lay; 

Wert  thou  in  a  mood  to  smile, 
With  thee  laugh  the  hours  away. 

Didst  thou  feel  inclined  to  sleep, 
I  would  watch,  and  hover  near; 

Did  misfortune  bid  thee  weep, 
I  would  give  thee  tear  for  tear. 

Not  a  sigh  that  heaved  thy  breast. 
But  I'd  echo  from  my  own; 

Did  one  care  disturb  thy  rest, 
Mine,  alas !  were  also  flown. 

When  the  hour  of  death  should  come, 
I'd  receive  thy  latest  sigh; 

Only  ask  to  share  thy  tomb, 
Then,  contented,  with  thee  die. 


THE    LILY. 


How  wither'd,  perish'd,  seems  the  fonn 
Of  yon  obscure  unsightly  root ! 

Yet  from  the  blight  of  wintry  storm 
It  hides  secure  the  precious  fruit. 

The  careless  eye  can  find  no  grace. 
No  beauty  in  the  scaly  folds. 

Nor  see  within  the  dark  embrace 
What  latent  loveliness  it  holds. 


EDMUND   MALONE. 


293 


Yet  in  that  bulb,  those  sapless  scales, 

The  lily  wraps  her  silver  vest, 
Till  vernal  suns  and  vernal  gales 

Shall  kiss  once  more  her  fragrant  breast. 

Yea,  hide  beneath  the  mould'ring  heap. 
The  undelightiug  slighted  thing; 

There  in  the  cold  earth  buried  deep, 
In  silence  let  it  wait  the  spring. 

Oh   many  a  stormy  night  shall  close ! 

In  gloom  upon  the  barren  earth, 
While  still  in  undisturb'd  repose, 

Uninjur'd  lies  the  future  birth. 

And  ignorance,  with  sceptic  eye, 

Hope's  patient  smile  shall  wond'ring  view; 
Or  mock  her  fond  credulity, 

As  her  soft  tears  the  spot  bedew  ; 

Sweet  smile  of  hope,  delicious  tear. 

The  sun,  the  show'r  indeed  shall  come; 

The  promised  verdant  shoot  appear, 
And  nature  bid  her  blossoms  bloom. 

And  thou,  0  virgin  queen  of  spring, 
Shalt  from  thy  dark  and  lowly  bed. 

Bursting  thy  green  sheath's  .silken  string, 
Unveil  thy  charms,  and  perfume  shed; 


Unfold  thy  robes  of  purest  white, 

Unsullied  from  their  darksome  grave, 

And  thy  soft  petals'  flow'ry  light 
In  the  mild  breeze  unfetter'd  wave. 

So  faith  shall  seek  the  lowly  dust, 
Where  humble  sorrow  loves  to  lie. 

And  bid  her  thus  her  hopes  intrust, 
And  watch  with  patient,  cheerful  eye; 

And  bear  the  long,  cold,  wintry  night, 
And  bear  her  own  degraded  doom, 

And  wait  till  heav'n's  reviving  light. 
Eternal  spring !  shall  burst  the  gloom. 


CALM   DELIGHT. 

Birds,  flowers,  softwind.s,  and  waters  gently  flowing, 
Surround  me  day  and  night, 

Still  sweetly  on  my  heart  bestowing 
Content  and  calm  delight. 

When  day's  toil  wearies,  sleep  my  peace  restoring, 
Descends  with  balmy  night; 

In  bright  dreams  on  my  bosom  pouring 
Content  and  calm  delight. 


EDMUND     MALONE. 


BoEN  1741  —  Died  1812. 


[Edmund  Malone,  chiefly  known  as  a  com- 
mentator on  Shakspere,  was  bovn  in  Dublin 
in  the  year  1741.  His  father  was  a  judge  in 
the  Irish  Court  of  Common  Pleas,  and  the 
family  was  an  ancient  and  respectable  one, 
having  been  originally  a  branch  of  the  cele- 
brated O'Connoi's.  In  1756  Malone  wiis  sent 
to  Trinity  CoUege,  and  after  graduating  there 
he  entered  at  the  Inner  Temjile,  London,  in 
1763,  and  was  called  to  the  Irish  bar.  For  a 
time  he  travelled  the  Munster  circuit,  and  was 
acquiring  reputation  and  a  good  practice,  when 
he  suddenly  found  that  a  fortune  had  been 
left  him,  sufficient  to  make  him  independent 
for  life.  The  true  bent  of  his  mind  now 
showed  itself ;  he  deserted  tlie  law,  removed 
to  Loudon  in  1777,  and  henceforward  devoted 
himself  to  a  life  of  literary  criticism  and  re- 
search. In  London  he  soon  became  acquainted 
with  Johnson,  Goldsmith,  Edmund  Burke, 
Bishop  Percy,  and  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  the 
latter  of  whom  made  him  one  of  the  executors 
of  his  wUl, 


In  1778  Malone  published  two  supplementary 
volumes  to  Johnston  and  Steevens'  editions  of 
Shakspere,  containing  the  poems  and  some 
doubtful  plays.  A  dispute  afterwards  occurred 
between  him  and  Mr.  Steevens,  and  in  17fln 
he  published  a  new  edition  of  Shakspere  in 
10  vols.,  which  was  undoubtedly  the  best  that 
had  appeared  up  to  tliat  time.  He  also  ren- 
dered valuable  aid  in  detecting  the  impudent 
Shaksperian  forgeries  i)ut  forward  by  Mr.  W. 
H.  Ireland.  Inspired  with  the  unwearying  in- 
dustry and  zeal  of  a  true  commentator  and 
literary  antiquary  he  continued  his  work, 
and  wrote  many  valuable  ar-ticles  on  our  old 
dramatic  litei'ature  and  collateral  subjects. 
Besides  these  minor  labours  of  his  pen  he 
produced  in  1790  Aji  Historical  Account  of  the 
Rise  and  Progress  of  the  English  Stage;  in 
1797,  The  ^Yorks  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  with 
a  Memoir;  in  1800,  an  edition  of  Drydens 
Prose  Works,  never  before  collected  together ; 
and  in  1808,  The  Works  of  Wm.  Gerard 
Hamilton,  with  a  Sketch  of  his  Life.   Although 


294 


EDMUND   MALONE. 


Maloue  had  resided  for  many  years  in  England 
he  advised  his  fi-iends  to  vote  against  the 
union,  and  notwithstanding  his  studious  and 
retired  habits  his  ojjinions  and  advice  were 
vahied  and  sought  after  by  men  of  high  rank 
and  influence  in  tlie  political  world.  In  later 
life  he  was  engaged  in  the  correction  and 
improvement  of  his  edition  of  Shakspere,  and 
was  on  the  point  of  issuing  a  revised  edition 
when  he  was  removed  by  death,  after  a  short 
illness,  on  the  25th  of  May,  1812.  He  was 
buried  near  the  family  residence  at  Barons- 
town  in  Westmeath.  He  desired  that  his 
valuable  library  should  go  to  Trinity  College, 
Dublin,  where  he  had  received  his  education, 
but  his  brother  Lord  Sunderliu  presented  it  to 
the  Bodleian  at  Oxford,  in  the  belief  that  it 
would  be  more  useful  there. 

Malone  has  frequently  been  sneered  at  for 
his  errors  and  misconceptions ;  but  if  we  re- 
member the  state  of  research  in  his  day  we 
must  give  him  credit  for  being  a  careful  and 
industrious  editor,  if  not  a  brilliant  writer.] 


THE  EARLY   STAGE.i 

So  early  as  the  year  1378  the  singing  boys 
of  St.  Paul's  represented  to  the  king  that  they 
had  been  at  a  considerable  expense  in  prepar- 
ing a  stage  representation  at  Christmas.  These, 
however,  cannot  properly  be  called  comedians, 
nor  am  I  able  to  point  out  the  time  when  the 
profession  of  a  player  became  common  and 
established.  It  has  been  supposed  that  the 
license  granted  by  Queen  Elizabeth  to  James 
Burbage  and  others  in  1574  was  the  first  re- 
gular license  ever  granted  to  comedians  in 
England ;  but  this  is  a  mistake,  for  Hey  wood 
informs  us  that  similar  licenses  had  been 
granted  by  her  father  King  Henry  the  Eighth, 
King  Edward  the  Sijsth,  and  Queen  Mary. 
Stowe  records  that  "  when  King  Edward  the 
Fourth  would  show  himself  in  state  to  the  view 
of  the  people,  he  repaired  to  his  palace  at  St. 
John's,  where  he  was  accustomed  to  see  the 
city  actors."  In  two  books  in  the  remem- 
brancer's oflSce  in  the  exchequer,  containing 
an  account  of  the  daily  expenses  of  King 
Henry  the  Seventh,  are  the  following  articles, 
from  which  it  appears  that  at  that  time  players, 
])0th  French  and  English,  made  a  part  of  the 
appendages  of  the  court,  and  were  supported 
by  regal  establishment 


I  This  and  the  following  extracts  are  from  A71  nutvri- 
cal  Account  of  the  Rise  and  Progress  0/  the  English  Stage. 


"  Item  to  the  French  players  in  reward,  20«. 
Item  to  the  tumblers  upon  the  ropes,  20s. 
For  healing  a  sick  maid,  65.  80?.  (probably  the 
piece  of  gold  given  by  the  king  in  touching 
for  the  evil).  Item  to  my  lord  prince's  organ- 
player  for  a  quarter  wages,  10s.  Item  to  the 
players  of  London  in  reward,  lOs.  Item  to 
Master  Barnard,  the  blind  poet,  100  shillings." 
The  foregoing  extracts  are  from  a  book,  of 
which  almost  every  page  is  signed  by  the 
king's  own  hand,  in  the  thirteenth  year  of  his 
reign.  The  following  are  taken  from  a  book 
containing  an  account  of  expenses  in  the  ninth 
year  of  his  reign :  "  Item  to  Cart  for  wi-iting 
of  a  book,  65.  8d.  Item  paid  for  two  plays  in 
the  hall,  26s.  80?.  Item  to  the  king's  players 
for  a  reward,  100  shillings.  Item  to  the  king 
to  play  at  cards,  100  shillings.  Lost  to  my 
Lord  Morging  at  buttes,  6s.  8d.  To  Harry 
Pyning,  the  king's  godson,  in  reward,  20s. 
Item  to  the  players  that  begged  by  the  way, 
6s.  8d." 

Some  of  these  articles  I  have  preserved  as 
curious,  though  they  do  not  relate  to  the 
subject  immediately  before  us.  This  account 
ascertains  that  there  was  then  not  only  a 
regular  troop  of  players  in  London,  but  also  a 
royal  company.  The  intimate  knowledge  of 
the  French  language  and  manners  which 
Henry  must  have  acquired  during  his  long 
sojourn  in  foreign  courts  (from  1471  to  1485) 
accounts  for  the  article  relative  to  the  com- 
pany of  French  players. 

In  a  manuscript  in  the  Cottoniau  Library  in 
the  Museum  a  narrative  is  given  of  the  shows 
and  ceremonies  exhibited  at  Christmas  in  the 
fifth  year  of  this  king's  reign.  "  On  Candle 
mass  day  the  king  and  queen,  my  lady  the 
king's  mother,  with  the  substance  of  all  the 
lords  temporal  present  at  the  parliament,  &c., 
went  in  procession  from  the  chapel  into  the 
haU.  The  king  was  that  day  in  a  rich  gown 
of  purple,  purled  with  gold,  fured  with  sables. 
At  night  the  king,  the  queen,  and  my  lady 
the  king's  mother,  came  into  the  white  haU 
and  there  had  a  play."     .... 

It  has  already  been  mentioned  that  origin- 
ally plays  were  performed  in  churches.  Though 
Bonner,  bishop  of  London,  issued  a  proclama- 
tion to  the  clergy  of  his  diocese  in  1542,  pro- 
hibiting "  all  manner  of  common  plays,  games, 
or  interludes,  to  be  played,  set  forth,  or  de- 
clared within  their  churches,  chapels,  &c.," 
the  practice  seems  to  have  been  continued 
occasionally  during  the  reign  of  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, for  the  author  of  The  Third  Blast  of 
Retreat  from  Plays  and  Players  complains  in 


EDMUND    MALONE. 


295 


1580  that  "the  players  aie  permitted  to  pub- 
lish their  mammetrie  in  every  temple  of  God, 
and  that  throughout  England."  And  this 
abuse  is  taken  notice  of  in  one  of  the  canons 
of  King  James  the  Fii-st,  given  soon  after  his 
accession  in  the  year  1(J03. 

Early,  however,  in  Queen  Elisabeth's  reign, 
the  established  players  of  Loudon  began  to 
act  in  temjjorary  theatres  constructed  in  the 
yards  of  inns,  and  about  the  year  1570,  I 
imagine,  one  or  two  regular  play-houses  were 
erected.  Both  the  theatre  in  Blackfriars  and 
that  in  Whitefriars  were  certainly  built  before 
1580,  for  we  learn  from  a  puritanical  pamphlet 
published  in  the  last  century  that  soon  after 
that  year  "  many  goodly  citizens  and  well-dis- 
posed gentlemen  of  London,  considering  that 
play-houses  and  dicing-) louses  were  traps  for 
young  gentlemen  and  others,  and  perceiving 
that  many  inconveniences  and  great  damage 
would  ensue  upon  the  long-suffering  of  the  same, 
acquainted  some  pious  magistrates  therewith, 
who  thereupon  made  humble  suit  to  Queen 
Elizabeth  and  her  privy-council,  and  obtained 
leave  from  her  majesty  to  thrust  the  players 
out  of  the  city,  and  to  pull  down  all  play- 
houses and  dicing-houses  within  their  liber- 
ties ;  which  accordingly  was  effected,  and  the 
play-houses  in  Gracious  Street,  Bishopsgate 
Street,  that  nigh  Paul's,  that  on  Ludgate  Hill, 
and  the  Whitefriars  were  quite  pulled  down 
and  suppressed  by  the  care  of  these  religious 
senators."  The  theatre  in  Blackfriars,  not  being 
within  the  liberties  of  the  city  of  London, 
escaped  the  fury  of  these  fanatics.  Elizabeth, 
however,  though  she  yielded  in  this  instance 
to  the  frenzy  of  the  time,  was  during  the 
whole  course  of  her  reign  a  favoui-er  of  the 
stage,  and  a  frequent  attendant  upon  plays. 
So  early  as  in  the  year  1569,  as  we  learn  from 
another  puritanical  writer,  the  children  of  her 
chapel  (who  are  described  as  "  her  majesty's 
unfledged  minions "),  "  flaunted  it  in  their 
silks  and  satins,"  and  acted  plays  on  profane 
subjects  in  the  chapel  royal.  In  1574  she 
granted  a  license  to  James  Burbage,  probably 
the  father  of  the  celebrated  tragedian,  and 
four  others,  servants  to  the  Earl  of  Leicester, 
to  exhibit  all  kinds  of  stage  plays,  during 
pleasure,  in  any  part  of  England,  "as  well 
for  the  recreation  of  her  loving  subjects,  as  for 
her  own  solace  and  pleasure  when  she  should 
think  good  to  see  them ; "  and  in  the  year  1583, 
soon  after  a  furious  attack  had  been  made  on 
the  stage  by  the  Puritans,  twelve  of  the  prin- 
cipal comedians  of  the  time,  at  the  earnest 
request    of    Sir    Francis   Walsiugham,   were 


selected  from  the  companies  then  subsisting 
under  the  license  and  protection  of  various 
noblemen,  and  were  sworn  her  majesty's  ser- 
vants. Eight  of  them  had  an  annual  stipend 
of  £3,  6s.  8d.  each.  At  that  time  there  were 
eight  companies  of  comedians,  each  of  which 
performed  twice  or  thrice  a  week.  "  For," 
says  an  old  sermon,  "  reckoning  with  the  least 
the  gain  that  is  reaped  of  eight  ordinary  places 
in  the  city  (which  I  know)  by  playing  but 
once  a  week,  whereas  many  times  they  play 
twice  and  even  thrice,  it  amounteth  to  two 
thousand  pounds  by  the  year." 


ANCIENT   MORALITIES  AND 
MYSTERIES. 

"In  the  city  of  Gloucester  the  manner  is  that 
when  players  of  interludes  come  to  town  they 
first  attend  the  mayor  to  inform  him  what 
nobleman's  servants  they  are,  and  so  to  get  a 
license  for  their  public  playing;  and  if  the 
mayor  like  the  actors,  or  would  show  respect 
to  their  lord  and  master,  he  appoints  them  to 
play  their  first  play  before  himself  and  the 
aldermen  and  common  council  of  the  city,  and 
that  is  called  the  mayor's  play,  where  every 
one  that  will  comes  in  without  money.  The 
mayor  gives  the  players  a  reward  as  he  thinks 
fit,  to  show  respect  to  them.  At  such  a  play 
my  father  took  me  with  him  and  made  me 
stand  between  his  legs  as  he  sat  upon  one  of 
the  benches,  where  we  saw  and  heard  very 
well.  The  play  was  c;dled  the  Cradle  of 
Security,  wherein  was  personated  a  king  or 
some  great  prince  with  his  courtiers  of  several 
kinds,  among  which  three  ladies  were  in 
special  grace  with  him,  and  they,  keeping  him 
in  delights  and  pleasures,  drew  him  from  his 
graver  counsellors,  hearing  of  sermons,  and 
listening  to  good  counsels  and  admonitions ; 
that  in  the  end  they  got  him  to  lie  down  in  a 
cradle  upon  the  stage,  where  these  three  ladies, 
joining  in  a  sweet  song,  rocked  him  asleep, 
that  he  snorted  again ;  and  in  the  meantime, 
closely  conveyed  under  the  clothes  wherewithal 
he  was  covered,  a  vizard,  like  a  swine's  snout 
upon  his  face,  with  three  wire  chains  fastened 
thereunto,  the  other  end  whereof  being  holden 
severally  by  those  three  ladies,  who  fall  to 
singing  again,  and  then  discovered  his  face, 
that  the  sjiectators  might  see  how  they  had 
transformed  him,  going  on  with  their  singing. 
Wlidst  all  this  was  acting  there  came  forth  of 
another  door  at  the  farthest  end  of  the  stage 


296 


EDMUND   MALONE, 


two  old  men,  the  one  in  blue  with  a  sergeant- 
at-arms,  the  other  in  red  with  a  drawn  sword 
in  his  hand,  and  leaning  with  the  other  hand 
upon  the  other's  shoulder,  and  so  they  went 
along  at  a  soft  pace  round  about  the  skirt  of 
the  stage,  till  at  last  they  came  to  the  cradle, 
when  all  the  court  was  in  the  greatest  jollity; 
and  then  the  foremost  old  man  with  his  mace 
struck  a  fearful  blow  upon  the  cradle,  where- 
with all  the  courtiers,  with  the  three  ladies 
and  the  vizard,  all  vanished,  and  the  desolate 
prince,  starting  up  barefaced,  and  finding  him- 
self thus  sent  for  to  judgment,  made  a  lament- 
able complaint  of  his  miserable  case,  and  so 
was  carried  away  by  wicked  spirits.  This 
prince  did  personate  in  the  moral  the  wicked 
of  the  world,  the  three  ladies  pride,  covetous- 
ness,  and  luxury,  the  two  old  men  the  end  of 
the  world  and  the  last  judgment." 

The  writer  of  this  account  appears  to  have 
been  born  in  the  same  year  with  our  great 
poet  (1564).  Supposing  him  to  have  been 
seven  or  eight  yeai-s  old  when  he  saw  this  in- 
terlude, the  exhibition  must  have  been  in  1571 
or  1572. 

I  am  unable  to  ascertain  when  the  first 
morality  appeared,  but  incline  to  think  not 
sooner  than  the  reign  of  King  Edward  the 
Fourth  (1460).  The  public  pageants  of  the 
reign  of  King  Henry  the  Sixth  were  uncom- 
monly splendid,  and  being  then  first  enliv- 
ened by  the  introduction  of  speaking  allegori- 
cal personages  properly  and  characteristic- 
ally habited,  they  naturally  led  the  way  to 
those  personifications  by  which  moralities 
were  distinguished  from  the  simpler  religious 
dramas  called  mysteries.  We  must  not,  how- 
ever, suppose  that  after  moralities  were  intro- 
duced mysteries  ceased  to  be  exhibited.  We 
have  already  seen  that  a  mystery  was  repre- 
sented before  King  Henry  the  Seventh  at 
Winchester  in  1487.  Sixteen  years  aftei-wards, 
on  the  first  Sunday  after  the  marriage  of  his 
daughter  with  King  James  of  Scotland,  a 
morality  was  performed.  In  the  early  part 
of  the  reign  of  King  Henry  the  Eighth  they 
were,  perhaps,  performed  indiscriminately, 
but  mysteries  were  probably  seldom  repre- 
sented after  the  statute  of  Henry  the  Eighth, 
which  was  made,  as  the  preamble  informs  us, 
with  a  view  that  the  kingdom  should  be 
purged  and  cleansed  of  all  religious  plays,  in- 
terludes, ballads,  and  songs,  which  are  equally 
pestiferous  and  noisome  to  the  commonweal. 
At  this  time  both  moralities  and  mysteries 
were  made  the  vehicle  of  religious  contro- 
versy. 


STAGE  SCENERY. 

How  little  the  imaginations  of  the  audience 
were  assisted  by  scenical  decejjtion,  and  how 
much  necessity  our  author  had  to  call  on  them 
to  piece  out  imperfections  with  their  thoughts, 
may  be  collected  from  Sir  Philip  Sydney,  who, 
describing  the  state  of  the  drama  and  the  stage 
in  his  time  (about  the  year  1583),  says,  "Now 
you  shall  have  three  ladies  walk  to  gather 
flowers,  and  then  we  must  believe  the  stage 
to  be  a  garden.  By  and  by  we  hear  news  of 
shipwreck  in  the  same  place,  tlien  we  are  to 
blame  if  we  accept  it  not  for  a  rock.  Upon 
the  back  of  that  comes  out  a  hideous  monster 
with  fire  and  smoke,  and  then  the  miserable 
beholders  are  bound  to  take  it  for  a  cave; 
while  in  the  meantime  two  armies  fly  in,  re- 
presented with  foiu-  swords  and  bucklers,  and 
then  what  hard  heart  will  not  receive  it  for  a 
pitched  field!" 

The  first  notice  that  I  have  found  of  any- 
thing like  movable  scenes  being  used  in  Eng- 
land is  in  the  narrative  of  the  entertainment 
given  to  King  James  at  Oxford  in  August,  1605. 
.  .  .  .  It  is  observable  that  the  writer  of  this 
account  was  not  acquainted  even  with  the  term 
scene,  having  used  "  painted  clothes  "  instead 
of  it;  nor,  indeed,  is  this  surprising,  it  not 
being  then  found  in  this  sense  in  any  diction- 
ary or  vocabulary,  English  or  foreign,  that  I 
have  met  with.  Had  the  common  stages  been 
furnished  with  them,  neither  this  writer  nor 
the  makers  of  dictionaries  could  have  been 
ignorant  of  it.  To  efiect  even  what  was  done 
at  Christ's  Church  the  university  found  it 
necessary  to  employ  two  of  the  king's  ctir- 
penters,  and  to  have  the  advice  of  the  con- 
troller of  his  works.  The  queen's  masque, 
which  was  exliibited  in  the  preceding  Janu- 
ary, was  not  much  more  successful,  though 
above  £3000  was  expended  upon  it.  At 
night,  says  Sir  Dudley  Carle  ton,  "  we  had  the 
queen's  mask  in  the  banqueting- house,  or 
rather  her  pageant.  There  was  a  great  engine 
at  the  lower  end  of  the  room,  which  had  mo- 
tion, and  in  it  were  the  images  of  sea-horaes 
(with  other  terrible  fishes),  which  were  ridden 

by  the  Moors The  indecorum  was, 

that  there  was  all  fish  and  no  water."  Such 
were  most  of  the  m;isques  in  the  time  of  James 
the  First— triumphal  cars,  castles,  rocks,  caves, 
pillars,  temples,  clouds,  rivers,  tritons,  &c., 
composed  the  principal  part  of  their  decora- 
tions. In  the  courtly  masques  given  by  his 
successor  during  the  fir8|i  fifteen  yeai-s  of  his 


I 


ANDREW  CHERRY. 


297 


reign,  and  in  some  of  the  plays  exhibited  at 
court,  the  art  of  sceneiy  seems  to  have  been 
somewhat  improved.  In  1636  a  piece  written 
by  Thomas  Heywood,  called  Love's  Mistress, 
or  the  Queen's  Masqite,  was  represented  at 
Denmark  House  before  their  majesties.  "For 
the  rare  decorements"  (says  Heywood  in  his 
preface)  "  which  new  apparelled  it  when  it 
came  the  second  time  to  the  royal  view  I 
cannot  pretermit  to  give  a  due  character  to 
that  admirable  artist,  Mr.  Inigo  Jones,  master 
surveyor  of  the  king's  works,  &c.,  who  to 
every  act,  nay,  almost  to  every  scene,  by  his 
excellent  invention,  gave  such  an  extraox'di- 
nary  lustre ;  upon  every  occasion  changing  the 
stage,  to  the  admiration  of  all  the  spectators." 
Here,  as  on  a  former  occa.sion,  we  may  remark 
the  term  scene  is  not  used,  the  stage  was 
changed  to  the  admiration  of  all  the  specta^ 
tors. 

In  August,  1636,  T/ie  Royal  Slave,  written 
by  a  very  popular  poet,  William  Cartwright, 
was  acted  at  Oxford  before  the  king  and  queen, 
and  afterwards  at  Hampton  Court.  Wood 
informs  us  that  the  scenery  was  an  exquisite 
and  uncommon  piece  of  machinery  contrived 
by  Inigo  Jones.  The  play  was  printed  in 
1639,  and  yet  even  at  that  late  period   the 


term  scene,  in  the  sense  now  affixed  to  it,  was 
unknown  to  the  author,  for  describing  the 
various  .scenes  employed  in  this  court  exhibi- 
tion he  denominates  them  thus:  "The  first 
appearance  a  temple  of  the  sun. — Second  ap- 
pearance, a  city  in  the  front  and  a  prison  at 
the  side,"  &c.  The  three  other  appearances  in 
this  play  were  a  wood,  a  palace,  and  a  castle. 
In  every  disqui-sition  of  this  kind  much 
trouble  and  many  words  might  be  saved  by 
defining  the  subject  of  dispute.  Before,  there- 
fore, I  proceed  further  in  this  inquiry  I  think 
it  proper  to  say  that  by  a  scene  I  mean  a 
painting  in  jjerspective  on  a  cloth  Listened  to 
a  wooden  frame  or  roller,  and  that  I  do  not 
mean  by  this  term  "a  coffin,  or  a  tomb,  or  a 
gilt  chair,  or  a  fair  chain  of  pearl,  or  a  cruci- 
tix,"  and  I  am  rather  induced  to  make  this 
declaration  because  a  writer  who  obliquely 
alluded  to  the  position  which  I  am  now  main- 
taining, soon  after  the  first  edition  of  this  essay 
was  published,  has  mentioned  exhibitions  of 
this  kind  as  a  proof  of  the  scenery  of  our  old 
plays  ;  and,  taking  it  for  granted  that  the 
point  is  completely  established  by  this  decisive 
argument,  triumphantly  adds,  *'  Let  us  for  the 
future  no  more  be  told  of  the  want  of  proper 
scenes  and  dresses  in  our  ancient  theatres." 


ANDREW    CHERRY. 


Born  1762  —  Died  1812. 


[Andrew  Cheiiy,  actor,  dramatist,  and  song- 
wiiter,  was  the  eldest  son  of  John  Cherry  of 
Limerick,  a  respectable  printer  and  bookseller. 
He  was  born  on  the  11th  of  January,  1762, 
and  was  early  sent  to  a  grammar-school  in  his 
native  place.  It  was  his  fathei-'s  intention 
that  he  should  enter  upon  holy  o-rdei's,  but, 
misfortune  coming  uj^on  the  family,  the  idea 
had  to  be  abandoned,  and  young  Andrew 
was  apprenticed  to  a  Mr.  Potts,  printer  and 
bookseller  in  Dame  Street,  Dublin.  Being 
a  clever  lad,  and  his  father  and  Mr.  Potts 
old  friends,  the  master  treated  his  apprentice 
with  favour,  and  took  him  to  the  theatre 
whenever  he  himself  went  there.  A  love  for 
the  stage  was  thus  fostered  in  the  youth,  and 
at  fourteen  he  made  his  appearance  as  an  actor 
in  the  character  of  Lucius  in  Addison^s  Cato  at 
a  semi-public  room  in  Towers  Street. 

At  seventeen  Cherry  abandoned  printing 
and  joined  a  company  of  strolling  players, 


making  his  first  appeai'ance  with  them  at  the 
town  of  Naas,  on  which  occasion  he  received 
as  his  share  of  the  profits  the  encouraging  svmi 
of  tenpence  halfpenny  !  However,  his  debut 
wjis  a  success  from  an  artistic  point  of  view, 
as  his  acting  of  the  not  very  easy  character  of 
Feignwell  in  Mi-s.  Centlivre's  Bold  Strolce  for 
a  Wife  called  forth  rounds  of  applause.  For 
some  months  Clierry  remained  with  this  com- 
pany, during  which  time  he  played  a  most 
extensive  range  of  characters,  comical  and 
tragical,  and  suffered  all  the  vicissitudes  of  a 
stroller's  career.  In  fact,  at  one  time  he  was 
reduced  so  low  as  to  be  witliout  food  for  four 
days,  and  in  the  end,  finding  it  actually  im- 
possible for  him  to  exist  as  a  player,  he  re- 
turned to  his  trade  again. 

For  three  years  he  remained  quietly  at  this 
employment,  but  at  the  end  of  that  time  he 
joined  the  company  of  a  Mr.  Knipe,  who  is 
said  to  have  been  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman 


298 


ANDREW   CHERRY. 


as  well  as  a  player.  In  this  company  he  met 
with  few  of  his  former  trials,  and  remained  in 
it  until  the  death  of  the  manager  caused  him 
to  look  out  for  another  engagement.  This  he 
soon  obtained  as  a  member  of  the  Provincial 
Company  of  Ireland,  which  was  under  the 
management  of  a  Mr.  Atkins.  While  playing 
in  this  company  he  quickly  became  a  popular 
favourite,  and  for  six  yeai-s  remained  in  Dublin 
and  Belfast  at  the  head  of  his  profession  in 
his  own  particular  comic  line.  During  this 
time  also  he  married  Miss  Knipe,  the  daughter 
of  his  former  manager.  In  1787  he  and  Mrs. 
Cherry  went  to  England,  and  engaged  with 
Tate  Wilkinson.  At  the  end  of  three  years 
they  returned  to  Ireland  for  a  couple  of  seasons, 
but  the  irregularity  of  the  manager's  pay- 
ments sent  them  once  more  to  England,  where 
they  engaged  with  Messrs.  Ward  and  Banks 
of  Manchester.^  Here  he  played  successfully 
for  a  couple  of  years,  after  which  he  moved  to 
Bath,  where  he  remained  for  four  seasons. 
Towards  the  end  of  1802  he  received  an  en- 
gagement at  Drury  Lane,  where  he  appeared 
on  the  25th  September  in  the  character  of  Sir 
Benjamin  Dove  in  The  Brothers,  and  Lazarillo 
in  Two  Strings  to  your  Bow,  and  was  rewarded 
with  great  applause.  This  may  be  said  to  be 
the  highest  point  reached  in  his  histrionic 
career.  He  afterwards  became  manager  of 
the  Swansea  and  Monmouth  theatres,  and 
died  at  the  latter  place  on  the  7th  of  Febru- 
ary, 1812. 

During  the  latter  part  of  his  career  as  an 
actor  Cherry  also  became  a  successful  dramatic 
writer.  We  give  the  following  list  of  his 
plays,  with  the  dates  of  their  appearance: 
Harlequin  on  the  Stocks,  1793,  a  soi-t  of  trial 
piece,  after  the  production  of  which  his  pen 
lay  almost  idle  until  1804,  when  he  produced 
The  Soldier's  Daughter,  which  had  a  rim  of 
thirty-seven  nights.  Encouraged  by  this  suc- 
cess he  rapidly  produced  All  for  Fame,  1805; 
The  Village,  1805  ;  The  Travellers,  1806  ; 
Thalia's  Tears,  1806;  Spanish  Dollars,  1806; 
Peter  the  Great,  1807;  A  Day  in  London, 
never  printed,  1807.  Many  of  these  were 
ephemeral  in  character,  but  all  of  them  show 
marked  ability  and  dramatic  instinct.  The 
Soldier's  Daughter  still  keeps  the  stage,  and  at 


least  one  or  two   others   have   been   played 
within  a  very  few  years. 

As  a  song- writer,  however,  Cherry  is  better 
known  than  as  either  actor  or  dramatist.  His 
"  Bay  of  Biscay  "  is  likely  to  last  as  long  as  the 
English  language  exists,  and  "  The  Green  Little 
Shamrock  of  Ireland  "  will  keep  his  memory 
green  in  the  heart  of  every  Irishman.  He 
has  also  produced  "  Tom  Moody,"  perhaps  the 
finest  sporting  song  in  existence,  and  one  that 
no  true  sportsman  can  ever  hear  without  a 
sigh  or  a  tear.] 


1  That  Andrew  Cherry  was  a  humourist  is  plain  from 
the  note  wliicli  he  addressed  to  this  manager,  in  reply  to 
an  application,  after  his  success  at  Drury  Lane,  to  enter 
into  an  engagement :— "  Sir,— I  am  not  so  great  a  fool  as 
you  take  me  for.  I  have  been  bitten  once  by  you,  and  I 
will  never  give  you  an  opportunity  of  making  two  bites 
of       A.  Cherry."— Croker's  Popular  Songs  oj  Ireland. 


TWO   OF   A  TRADE.* 

Enter  Mrs.  Fidget  and  Timothy  Quaint. 

Mrs.  F.  'Tis  no  such  thing,  Mr.  Timothy. 
Give  me  leave  to  know  the  private  concerns 
of  a  family  that  I  have  lived  with  before  you 
were  born. 

Tim.  If  that's  the  case,  they  have  no  private 
concerns  by  this  time.  They  are  pretty  public 
now. 

Mrs.  F.  Jackanapes!  Does  it  follow,  be- 
cause I  indulge  you  with  my  communications, 
that  all  the  world  are  to  be  instructed  by  me  ? 

Tim.  No;  it  doesn't  follow.  It  generally 
goes  before.  You  retail  your  knowledge  every 
week-day  in  small  paragraphs ;  and  on  Sun- 
day you  rush  forth  yourself,  fresh  from  the 
press, — -a  walking  journal  of  weekly  com- 
munication. 

Mrs.  F.  Well ;  am  I  not  right  there,  mon- 
grel? It  is  the  moral  duty  of  a  Christian  to 
instruct  the  ignorant,  and  open  the  minds  of 
the  uninformed. 

Tim.  Yes ;  but  you  are  not  content  with 
opening  their  minds,  you  open  their  mouths, 
too,  and  set  them  a-prating  for  a  week  to 
come. 

Mrs.  F.  It  requires  but  little  pains,  how- 
ever, to  set  you  a-prating.  Such  a  tongue ! 
Mercy  on  me  !  Gibble  gabble,  prittle  prattle, 
for  ever  and  for  ever ! 

Tim.  Lord -a- mercy  !  there's  a  plumper! 
When  I  came  to  live  in  this  house,  I  never 
opened  my  lips  for  the  first  quai'ter.  The 
thing  was  impossible ;  your  eternal  clatter 
almost  starved  as  well  as  dumb -foundered 
me.  I  could  put  nothing  either  in  or  out  of 
my  mouth ;  I  was  compelled  to  eat  my  victuals 
at  midnight ;  for  until  you  were  as  fast  as  a 


2  This  and  the  next  scene  are  from  The  Soldier's  Daugh- 
ter. 


ANDREW  CHEERY. 


299 


church,  I  was  forced  to  be  as  silent  as  a  tomb- 
stone. 

Mrs.  F.  Why,  sirrah  ! — jackanapes ! — mon- 
key !  His  honour  has  sutfered  your  impertin- 
ent freedoms  'til  you  are  become  quite  master 
of  the  house ;  and  now  I  suppose  you  want  to 
be  mistress  too. 

Tim.  So  do  you;  therefore  we  quarrel.  Two 
of  a  trade,  you  know — 

}frs.  F.  But  your  master  shall  know  of  your 
tricks  and  insolencies. 

Tim.  Let  him.  He  likes  it.  He  says  him- 
self, I  am  an  odd-fish ;  a  thornback,  I  suppose, 
or  I  shouldn't  be  able  to  deal  with  an  old 
maid. 

Mrs.  F.  Old  maid  !  Slander ! — impudence  ! 
— puppy !  Have  I  lived  to  this  time  of  day 
to  be  cjiUed  old  maid  at  last?  I  never,  till 
now,  seriously  wished  to  be  married.  Had  I 
a  husband — 

Tim.  If  you  had,  he'd  be  the  most  envied 
mortal  in  England. 

Mrs.  F.  Why,  feUow? 

Tim.  Because  there's  not  such  another 
woman  in  the  kingdom. 


DESPERATE   RIVALS. 

Enter  Widow  and  Charles  Woodley. 

Cha.  I  knew  I  should  surprise  you.  I 
therefore  avoided  writing,  or  giving  you  the 
smallest  information  of  my  arrival  in  England. 
But  I  perceive  marriage  has  not  tamed  you, 
nor  widowhood  dejected  your  spirits.  You  are 
still  the  same  giddy,  lively,  generous  madcap. 

Wid.  Exactly,  Charles.  Having  the  sanc- 
tion of  experience  and  confidence  in  my  own 
heart,  its  follies  or  vivacity  can  never  lead  to 
dishonour. 

Cha.  But  no  mischief  in  the  wind,  I  hope ; 
no  new  conquest  meditated? 

Wid.  No,  nothing  new ;  the  mischief  is 
already  done. 

Cha.  Indeed. 

Wid.  Yes,  indeed.  I  am  afraid  I  am  gone 
again. 

Cha.  What,  married  again  ? 

Wid.  No,  not  yet.  Charles,  will  you  give 
me  leave  to  ask  a  question  ? 

Cha.  Certainly. 

Wid.  Have  you  ever  been  in  an  action? 

Cha.  In  action  !     How  do  you  mean  ? 

Wid.  Pooh  !  You  have  not  been  so  long  a 
soldier  without  some  lighting,  I  suppose? 


Cha.  No,  faitli.  I  have  had  my  share  of 
danger,  and  have  fortunately  escaped  with  un- 
fractured  bones. 

Wid.  Then  you  may  form  some  idea  of 
my  situation.  Before  the  action,  a  general's 
anxiety  must  be  dreadful ;  so  is  mine.  Come, 
as  a  soldier's  daughter  I'll  state  the  case  in 
your  own  way.  We  wUl  suppose  my  heart  a 
citadel,  a  remarkably  strong  fortress ;  its  out- 
works, in  my  mind,  ;i.s  impenetrable  as  the 
rock  of  Gibraltar.  Now,  an  excellent  com- 
mander, and  an  able  engineer,  sits  down  before 
this  well -defended  garrison.  He  pours  in 
shells  of  flattery,  which  waste  themselves  in 
the  air,  and  do  no  farther  mischief.  He  then 
artfully  despatches  two  of  his  aide-de-camps, 
in  the  disguise  of  charity  and  benevolence,  to 
sap  the  foundation,  and  lay  a  train  for  the 
demolition  of  the  garrison;  which  train,  to  his 
own  confusion,  hj^ocrisy  blows  up,  and  leaves 
the  fortress  still  besieged,  but  not  surrendered. 

Cha.  But  I  suppose  you  mean  to  surrender 
— at  discretion. 

Wid.  No ;  capitulate  upon  honourable  terms. 

Cha.  Bravo,  sister !  You  are  an  excellent 
soldier.  But  who  is  this  formidable  foe.  Can 
I  find  his  name  in  the  army-list? 

Wid.  No ;  in  the  London  Directory,  more 
likely. 

Cha.  What!  a  merchant? 

Wid.  I  believe  so.  The  man  deals  in  indigo, 
cotton,  rice,  coflFee,  and  brown  sugar. 

Cha.  Indeed  !     And  his  name — 

Wid.  Ay,  there  you  are  puzzled !  Now, 
what's  his  name? 

Cha.  His  name  ?  Why — Francis  Heartall 
is  a  good  name  in  the  city. 

Wid.  Ah,  lud  a  mercy!  Why,  Charles, 
have  you  been  among  the  gypsies  ?  How  long 
since  you  commenced  diviner?  You  are  not 
the  seventh  son  of  a  seventh  son  ! 

Cha.  No ;  I  am  the  son  of  your  father,  and, 
without  the  gift  of  divination,  can  foresee  you 
wish  to  make  Frank  Heartall  my  brother. 

Wid.  No,  no,  Charles ;  there  are  enough  of 
the  family  already, 

Cha.  Yes ;  and  if  there  are  not  a  great  many 
more,  it  will  not  be  your  fault,  sister.  Ha, 
ha,  ha ! 

Wid.  Monster  !  But  let  this  silence  you  at 
once.  I  have — a  sort  of — floating  idea  that  I 
Uke  this  Heartall ;  but  how  it  has  come  to 
your  knowledge  is  beyond  my  shallow  com- 
prehension. 

Cha.  Know  then,  sister,  that  Heartall  was 
the  earliest  friend  of  my  youth.  I  love  the 
fellow. 


300 


ANDKEW  CHEERY. 


Wid.  So  do  I.     It  is  a  family  failing. 

Cha.  When  boys,  we  were  scliool-fellows, 
class-fellows,  play-fellows.  I  was  partner  in 
his  pranks,  fellow  -  sufferer  in  his  disgrace, 
co-mate  in  mischief;  we  triumphed  in  each 
othei-'s  pleasures,  and  mourned  together  our 
little  imaginary  distresses. 

Wid.  It  is  aU  over  then.  I  must  make  you 
brothers ;  you  love  one  another  so  well.  You 
will  have  it  so ;  it's  all  your  doing. 

Cha.  Ingenuous  sister  !  I  could  hug  you  to 
my  heart.  A  noble-minded  fellow  loves  you. 
You  feel  he  merits  your  affection,  and  scorn 
the  little  petty  arts  that  female  folly  too  often 
practises  to  lead  in  slow  captivity  a  worthy 
heart,  for  the  pleasure  of  sacrificing  it  at  the 
shrine  of  vanity. 

Wid.  Very  true.  But  I  do  not  mean  to 
give  i^ractical  lessons  to  flii-ts  or  coquettes — 
who,  by  the  bye,  are  a  very  useful  race  of 
people  in  their  way ;  so  many  fools  and  cox- 
combs could  never  be  managed  without  them. 
No;  if  I  do  marry  the  grocer,  'tis  merely  to 
oblige  you. 

Enter  Servant. 

Ser.  Mr.  Heartall,  madam ;  if  you  are  at 
leisure. 

Wid.  Show  him  up.  [Exit  Servant. 

Cha.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  We  shall  have  the  devil 
to  pay  presently.  Heartall  does  not  know  me 
as  your  brother. 

Wid.  How  !     Is  it  possible  ? 

Cha.  I  met  him  just  as  I  arrived ;  wormed 
his  secret  from  him,  and  swore  I  would  find 
you  out.  My  presence  here  will  astonish  him. 
He  will  suppose  me  his  rival,  and — hush  !  he's 
here !  (Retires.) 

Enter  Frank  Heartall. 

Fran.  Madam,  I  am  come  to  apologize  for 
my  abrupt  departure  from  your  apartments 
this  morning ;  and  to  offer  such  conviction  of 
the  falsehood  of  the  charge  against  me,  as — 

Wid.  I  entreat  you  will  not  tjike  the  trouble 
to  mention  it;  pray  think  no  more  of  it.  Give 
me  leave  to  introduce  a  very  particuhir  friend 
of  mine. 

Cha.  Frank !  Frank  Heartall !  I  am  over- 
joyed to  meet  you  here. 

Fran.  Excuse  me,  Charles;  you  have  all  the 
joy  to  yourself. 

Wid.  Tliis  gentleman  tells  me,  sir,  that  you 
and  he  are  very  old  acquaintance. 

Fran.  Yes,  madam ;  very  old. 

Cha.  Ila,  ha,  ha!  Yes,  madam;  very  old 
indeed — eh,  Frank? 


Fran.  Yes,  Charles ;  so  old,  that  one  of  ua 
must  soon  die ! 

Cha.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Wid.  Heaven  forbid  !  I  hope  you  wiU  both 
live  to  be  right-reverend,  gray-headed  old 
gentlemen. 

Fran.  No,  madam;  we  can't  both  live  to  be 
gray-headed  old  gentlemen.  One  of  us  may, 
perhaps. 

Cha.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  What  the  devil  is  the 
matter,  Frank?     Got  into  another  scrape? 

Fran.  A  d d  one  !     Hark  you,  Charles; 

a  word  with  you.  How  did  you  find  that 
lady  out? 

Cha.  Byyourdescription;  every bodyknewit. 

Fran.  Did  they  ?  Do  you  mean  to  pay  your 
addresses  to  her? 

Cha.  A  blunt  question. 

Fran.  It  is  an  honest  one.    Do  you  love  her  ? 

Cha.  By  heaven  I  do ;  and  would  risk  my 
life  to  secure  her  felicity. 

Fran.  I  loved  her  first. 

Cha.  That  I  deny. 

Fran.  You  dare  not,  Chai-Ies.  I,  too,  have 
a  life  already  risked ;  it  is  in  her  keeping.  If 
she  is  yours  your  pistols  will  be  unnecessary; 
you  take  my  life  when  you  take  her. 

Wid.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Fran.  Madam,  I  ask  your  pardon ;  I  believe 
I  was  born  to  torment  you;  I  wish  I  had  never 
seen  you.  But  pray,  madam, — don't  laugh 
now — do — you — love — this  gentleman  ? 

Wid.  From  my  heart  and  soul. 

Fran.  Death  ! — tortures! — hell!— jealousy! 
One  of  us  must  die !  {Going  out,  the  Widoio 
prevents  him.)  Very  well,  madam !  very  well ! 
You  are  a  traitor,  Charles. 

Cha.  {Coolly.)  Hard  words,  Frank ! 

Fran.  A  false  friend  ! 

Cha.  Worse  and  worse. 

Fran.  I  could  almost  call  you — vdllain. 

Cha.  Now  you  make  progi'ess. 

Fran.  I  loved  you  like  a  brother ! 

Cha.  You  did  ;  I  own  it. 

Fran.  Ai-e  you  not  unworthy  of  that  name? 

Cha.  Ask  my  sister. 

Fran.  Who?     Are  you  sister  to — 

Wid.  Ask  my  brother. 

/'ran.  Madam!  Charles!  Eh!— What!— I 
am  bewildered  !  Are  you  really  brother  to  this 
lady? 

Wid.  To  be  sure  he  is  !  Ha,  ha,  ha !  Don't 
you  remember  old  Jack  Woodley's  daughter? 

Fran.  Oh,  fool!  dolt!  stupid  idiot!  By 
heaven  the  circumstance  never  once  entered 
my  head !  Charles  !  Madam  !  Can  you  forgive 
me?    Ha,  ha!    Zounds!    I  shall  go  mad!    Ha, 


ANDREW  CHEERY. 


301 


ha,  ha !  Tol,  lol,  lol !  I  am  sure  I  shall  go 
mad  I 

Wid.  Did  ever  you  see  such  a  whirligig? 
Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Cha.  A  child's  top,  rather,  that  requires 
lashing  to  keep  it  up.     Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Fran.  Lasli  away !  I  deserve  it  richly.  But 
now  I  have  almost  recovered  my  senses,  will 
you  both  honour  me  with  your  company  to  my 
old  uncle's?  My  carriage  is  at  the  door:  for  I 
am  now  determined  to  clear  up  all  mystei-ies, 
either  to  my  confusion  or  tiie  detection  of  a 
hypocritical  liend ! 

Wid.  Dare  I  venture  myself  with  this  mad- 
man, Charles  /     Won't  he  bite,  think  you? 

Fran.  Not  unless  the  paroxysm  returns ;  in 
that  case  I'll  not  answer  for  him. 

Wid.  Then  I'll  summon  up  all  the  resolution 
I  can  muster  and  attend  you  to  the  governor's 
without  delay. 

Fran.  Will  you?  Then  I  shall  go  mad 
indeed !  Zounds,  I  am  half  frantic  already. 
I  could  run  up  a  steeple,  jump  down  a  coal- 
pit, put  St.  Paul's  in  my  pocket,  and  make  a 
walking-stick  of  the  Monument.  Huzza, 
huzza.  She  is  single  still;  Charles  is  her 
brother;  and  Frank  Heartall  may  yet  be  a 
hearty  fellow.  {He  hurries  them  of.) 


FAMED  FOR  DEEDS   OF  ARMS. 

He  was  famed  for  deeds  of  arms, 
She  a  maid  of  envied  charms; 
She  to  him  her  love  imparts, 
One  pure  flame  pervades  both  hearts; 
Honour  calls  him  to  the  field, 
Love  to  conquest  now  must  yield — 
Sweet  maid !  he  cries,  again  I'll  come  to  thee, 
When  the  glad  trumpet  sounds  a  victory! 

Battle  now  with  fury  glows; 

Hostile  blood  in  torrents  flows; 

His  duty  tells  him  to  depart; 

She  pressed  her  hero  to  her  heart ; 

And  now  the  trumpet  sounds  to  arms; 

Amid  the  clash  of  rude  alarms — 
Sweet  maid  !  he  cries,  again  I'll  come  to  thee. 
When  the  glad  trumpet  sounds  a  victory! 

He  with  love  and  conquest  bums, 
Both  subdue  his  mind  by  turns! 
Death  the  soldier  now  enthrals! 
Witli  his  wounds  the  hero  falls! 
She,  disdaining  war's  alarms, 
Rushed,  and  caught  him  in  her  arms ! 

Oh!  death,  he  cries,  thou'rt  welcome  now  to  me! 

For,  hark!  the  trumpet  sounds  a  victory! 


THE  GREEN  LITTLE   SHAMROCK  OF 
IRELAND. 

There's  a  dear  little  plant  that  grows  in  our  isle, 
'Twas  Saint  Patrick  himself,  sure,  that  set  it; 
And  the  sun  on  his  labour  with  pleasure  did  smile, 

And  with  dew  from  his  eye  often  wet  it. 
It  thrives  through  the  bog,   through  the  brake, 

through  the  mireland ; 
And  he  called  it  the  dear  little  shamrock  of  Ireland, 
The   sweet  little  shamrock,   the  dear  little 

shamrock. 
The  sweet  little,   green  little,  shamrock  of 
Ireland. 

This  dear  little  plant  still  grows  in  our  land. 

Fresh  and  fair  as  the  daughters  of  Erin, 
Whose  smiles  can  bewitch,  whose  eyes  can  com- 
mand. 
In  each  climate  that  they  may  appear  in ; 
And  shine  through  the  bog,  through  the  brake, 

through  the  mireland ; 
Just  like  their  own  dear  little  shamrock  of  Ireland, 
The  sweet  little  shamrock,   the  dear  little 

shamrock, 
The  sweet  little,  green  little,  shamrock  of 
Ireland. 

This  dear  little  plant  that  springs  from  our  soil, 

When  its  three  little  leaves  are  extended. 
Denotes  from  one  stalk  we  together  should  toil. 

And  ourselves  by  ourselves  be  befriended ; 
And  still  through  the  bog,   through  the  brake, 

through  the  mireland. 
From  one  root  should  branch,  like  the  shamrock 
of  Ireland, 
The  sweet  little  shamrock,    the  dear  little 

shamrock, 
The  sweet  little,  green  little,  shamrock  of 
Ireland. 


THE   BAY   OF   BISCAY. 

Loud  roar'd  the  dreadful  thunder, 
The  rain  a  deluge  showers, 

The  clouds  were  rent  asunder 
By  lightning's  vivid  powers : 

The  night  both  drear  and  dark, 

Our  poor  devoted  bark. 

Till  next  day  there  she  lay 
In  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  0 ! 

Now  dash'd  upon  the  billow, 
Our  opening  timbers  creak ; 

Each  fears  a  wat'ry  pillow. 
None  stops  the  dreadful  leak ; 

To  cling  to  slipp'rj'  shrouds 

Each  breathless  seaman  crowds, 


302 


EICHAED   ALFRED   MILLIKIN. 


As  she  lay  till  next  day 
In  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  O ! 

At  length  the  wish'd-for  morrow 
Broke  thro'  the  hazy  sky ; 

Absorb'd  in  silent  sorrow, 
Each  heav'd  a  bitter  sigh ; 

The  dismal  wreck  to  view 

Struck  horror  to  the  crew, 

As  she  lay  on  that  day 
In  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  0 ! 

Her  yielding  timbers  sever, 

Her  pitchy  seams  are  rent. 
When  Heaven,  all-bounteous  ever. 

Its  boundless  mercy  sent; 
A  sail  in  sight  appears. 
We  hail  her  with  three  cheers: 
Now  we  sail  with  the  gale 
From  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  O ! 


TOM   MOODY. 


You  all  knew  Tom  Moody,  the  whipper-in,  well ; 
The  bell  just  done  tolling  was  honest  Tom's  knell; 
A  more  able  sportsman  ne'er  followed  a  hound, 
Through  a  country  well  known  to  him  fifty  miles 

round. 
No  hound  ever  open'd  with  Tom  near  the  wood. 
But  he'd  challenge  the  tone,  and  could  tell  if  'twere 

good; 


And  all  with  attention  would  eagerly  mark, 
When  he  cheer'd  up  the  pack,  "Hark!  to  Rook- 
wood,  hark !  hark ! 

High! — wind  him!  and  cross  him; 

Now,  Rattler,  boy! — Hark!" 

Six  crafty  earth-stoppers,  in  hunter's  green  drest, 
Supported  poor  Tom  to  an  "  earth  "  made  for  rest ; 
His  horse,  which  he  styled  his  Old  Soul,  next 

appear'd. 
On  whose  forehead  the  brush  of  the  last  fox  was 

rear'd ; 
Whip,    cap,    boots,    and  spurs  in  a  trophy  were 

bound. 
And  here  and  there  follow'd  an  old  straggling 

hound. 
Ah !  no  more  at  his  voice  yonder  vales  will  they 

trace. 
Nor  the  welkin  resound  to  the  burst  in  the  chase! 
With  "High  over! — now  press  him! 
Tally-ho!— Tally-ho!" 

Thus  Tom  spoke  his  friends  ere  he  gave  up  his 

breath, 
"Since  I  see  you're  resolved  to  be  in  at  the  death, 
i^ne  favour  bestow— 'tis  the  last  I  .shall  crave, — 
Give  a  rattling  view-hollow  thrice  over  my  grave; 
And  unless  at  that  warning  I  lift  up  my  head, 
My  boys  you  may  fairly  conclude  I  am  dead !" 
Honest  Tom  was  obey'd,  and  the  shout  rent  the  sky, 
For  every  voice  join'd  in  the  tally-ho  cry, 

Tally-ho  !     Hark  forward ! 

Tally-ho !     Tally-ho ! 


I 


RICHARD    ALFRED    MILLIKIN. 


Born  1767  — Died  1815. 


["  Honest  Dick  Millikin"  was  born  at  Castle 
Martyr,  in  the  county  of  Cork,  iu  1767.  When 
youiig  he  was  placed  iu  the  office  of  a  country 
attorney  to  serve  an  apprenticeship  to  the  law, 
but  he  had  the  reputation  of  devoting  more 
of  his  attention  to  painting,  poetry,  and  music 
than  to  law.  After  some  difficulty  he  was 
admitted  a  member  of  the  King's  Inns,  and 
commenced  business  as  an  attorney  in  Cork. 
He  found  little  employment,  however,  and 
that  little  chiefly  in  the  recovery  of  debts, 
an  occupation  ill  suited  to  his  genial  character, 
and  he  was  therefore  left  with  leisure  to  in- 
dulge his  taste  for  literature  and  the  fine  arts. 
Like  most  of  his  countrymen  he  possessed  a 
keen  sense  of  humour,  and  was  the  life  and 
centre  of  convivial  society  in  his  native  town. 


On  the  breaking  out  of  the  rebellion  in  1798 
he  joined  the  Royal  Cork  Volunteers,  and  be- 
came a  conspicuous  member  of  that  corps. 
He  was  also,  through  the  exertions  of  his  pen 
and  jDencil,  an  active  promoter  of  various  use- 
ful and  benevolent  objects  in  the  town,  among 
others  he  establi.shed  a  Society  for  the  Pro- 
motion of  the  Fine  Arts.  In  1795  several  of  his 
poetical  pieces  appeared  in  a  Cork  magazine. 
In  1797  he  published  jointly  with  his  sister — 
who  was  the  authoress  of  several  historical 
novels — The  Casket  or  Hesperian  Magazine, 
which  appeared  monthly  imtil  the  troubles  of 
the  following  year  terminated  its  existence. 
Besides  many  short  poems  Millikin  wrote  a 
long  one  in  blank  verse,  entitled  "  The  River 
Side."     None  of  liis  pieces  seem  to  have  at- 


EICHARD  ALFRED  MILLIKIN. 


30.3 


tained  wide  popularity,  and  many  of  them, 
written  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment  and  in 
burlesque  on  the  doggerel  flights  of  the  hedge 
schoolmasters  and  local  bards,  through  care- 
lessness were  forgotten  and  lost. 

At  a  convivial  party  a  piece  written  by  an 
itinerant  poet  in  praise  of  Castle  Hyde  was 
discussed.  This  poem,  from  its  ludicrous 
character,  had  attained  great  popularity,  but 
Mr.  Millikin  declared  he  would  write  a  piece 
which  for  absurdity  would  far  surpass  it. 
With  this  view  he  wrote  the  well  known  and 
popular  "Groves  of  Blarney."  With  much  tact 
and  cleverness  he  has  introduced  into  this 
song  local  and  historic  truth  dressed  in  bur- 
lesque. Blarney  was  forfeited  by  Lord  Clan- 
carty  in  1689,  and  did  pass  into  the  hands  of 
the  Jeffery  family.  Millikin  makes  Crom- 
well the  bogle  who  assaults  the  ill-used  Lady 
JefiFers,  and  makes  a  breach  in  her  castle. 
This  may  be  true  or  not,  but  it  is  certain  Lord 
Broghill  took  the  castle  in  1646. 

When  near  the  close  of  life,  Mr.  Millikin, 
it  would  seem,  regretted  the  time  wasted  in 
the  light  class  of  poetry  he  had  chiefly  pro- 
duced ;  had  his  life  been  longer  spared,  he 
would  probably  have  left  to  posterity  a  worthy 
picture  of  the  lovely  scenery  and  country  lying 
near  and  around  the  ruined  castle  of  the  Mac- 
Cauras.  He  died  in  December,  1815,  when  only 
in  the  prime  of  life.  A  small  volume,  entitled 
Poetical  Fragments  of  the  late  Richard  Alfred 
Millikin,  was  printed  in  1823.] 


THE  GROVES  OF  BLARNEY. 

The  Groves  of  Blarney 
Thej'  look  so  charming, 
Down  by  the  purling 

Of  sweet  silent  streams. 
Being  banked  with  posies, 
That  spontaneous  grow  there, 
Planted  in  order 

By  the  sweet  rock  close. 
'Tis  there's  the  daisy 
And  the  sweet  carnation, 
The  blooming  pink. 

And  the  rose  so  fair; 
The  dafFodowndilly — 
Likewise  the  lily, 
All  flowers  that  scent 

The  sweet  fragrant  air. 

'Tis  Lady  Jeffers 
That  owns  this  station; 
Like  Alexander, 

Or  Queen  Helen  fair; 


There's  no  commander 
In  all  the  nation, 
For  emulation, 

Can  with  her  compare. 
Such  walls  surround  her, 
That  no  nine-pounder 
Could  dare  to  plunder 

Her  place  of  strength; 
But  Oliver  Cromwell, 
Her  he  did  pommell, 
And  made  a  breach 

In  her  battlement. 

There's  gravel  walks  there, 
For  speculation, 
And  conversation 

In  sweet  solitude. 
'Tis  there  the  lover 
May  hear  the  dove,  or 
The  gentle  plover 

In  the  afternoon; 
And  if  a  lady 
Would  be  so  engaging 
As  to  walk  alone  in 

Those  shady  bowers, 
'Tis  there  the  courtier 
He  may  transport  her 
Into  some  fort,  or 

All  under  ground. 

For  'tis  there's  a  cave  where 
No  daylight  enters. 
But  cats  and  badgers 

Are  for  ever  bred; 
Being  mossed  by  nature, 
That  makes  it  sweeter 
Than  a  coach-and-six. 

Or  a  feather-bed. 
'Tis  there  the  lake  is, 
Well  stored  with  perches, 
And  comely  eels  in 

The  verdant  mud; 
Besides  the  leeches. 
And  groves  of  beeches, 
Standing  in  order 

For  to  guard  the  flood. 

There's  statues  gracing 
This  noble  place  in — 
All  heathen  gods 

And  nymphs  so  fair: 
Bold  Neptune,  Plutarch, 
And  Nioodemus, 
All  standing  naked 

In  the  open  air! 
So  now  to  finish 
This  brave  narration. 
Which  my  poor  geni' 

Could  not  entwine; 
But  were  I  Homer, 


304 


SIR   PHILIP   FRANCIS. 


Or  Nebuchadnezzar, 
'Tis  in  every  feature 
I  would  make  it  shine. 

[There  is  an  additional  verse  to  this  song  by 
Father  Prout  relating  to  the  famous  Blarney 
Stone.  Samuel  Lover  says  any  editor  who 
would  omit  it  deserves  to  be  hung  up  to  dry 
on  his  own  lines.  To  avoid  this  fate  here  they 
are: — 

There  is  a  stone  there, 

That  whoever  kisses, 

Oh  !  he  never  misses 

To  grow  eloquent; 

'Tis  he  may  clamber 

To  a  lady's  chamber, 

Or  become  a  member 
Of  parliament. 

A  clever  spouter 

He'll  soon  turn  out,  or 

An  out-and-outer, 
To  be  let  alone. 

Don't  hope  to  hinder  him, 

Or  to  bewilder  him. 

Sure  he's  a  pilgrim 

From  the  Blarney  Stone  !] 


CONVIVIAL   SONG. 


used, 


Had  I  the  tun  which  Bacchu 

I'd  sit  on  it  all  day; 
For,  while  a  can  it  ne'er  refused. 

He  nothing  had  to  pay. 

I'd  turn  the  cock  from  morn  to  eve, 
Nor  think  it  toil  or  trouble; 

But  I'd  contrive,  you  may  believe, 
To  make  it  carry  double. 


My  friend  should  sit  as  well  as  I, 
And  take  a  jovial  pot; 

For  he  who  drinks — although  he's  dry- 
Alone,  is  sure  a  sot. 

But  since  the  tun  which  Bacchus  used 
We  have  not  here — what  then? 

Since  god-like  toping  is  refused, 
Let's  drink  like  honest  men. 

And  let  that  churl,  old  Bacchus,  sit, 

Who  envies  him  his  wine? 
While  mortal  fellowship  and  wit 

Make  whisky  more  divine. 


A  PROLOGUE 


WRITTEN  AND  SPOKEN  AT  AN  EXHIBITION  OF  PUPPETS, 
NAMED  THE  "  PATAGONIAN  THEATKE,"  IN  THE 
LECTURE-KOOM   OF   CORK  INSTITUTION. 

Look  at  the  stage  of  life,  and  you  shall  see 
How  many  blockheads  act  as  well  as  we; 
Through  all  this  world  such  actors  still  abound, 
With  heads  as  hard,  but  not  with  hearts  as  sound. 
Of  real  life  to  make  the  likeness  good. 
We  have  our  actors  from  congenial  wood; 
For  instance.  Dr.  Bolus  here  you'll  see 
Shake  his  grave  noddle  in  sage  ebony; 
Soldiers  in  laurel,  lawyers  and  the  church 
In  sable  yew,  and  pedagogues  in  birch; 
Ladies  in  satin-wood,  and  dying  swains 
In  weeping  willow  melodize  their  pains; 
Poets  in  bay,  in  crab-tree  politicians. 
And  any  bit  of  stick  will  make  musicians; 
Quakers  in  good  sound  deal  we  make — plain  folk. 
And  British  tars  in  heart  of  native  oak ! 


SIR    PHILIP    FRANCIS. 

Born  1740  — Died  1818. 


[This  distinguished  statesman,  the  reputed 
author  of  the  celebrated  Letters  of  Junius,  was 
the  son  of  Dr.  Francis  the  translator  of  Hor- 
ace, already  noticed  in  our  pages,^  and  was 
born  in  Dublin  in  1740.  When  Philip  was 
ten  years  of  age  his  father  removed  to  Eng- 
land, and  established  an  academy  at  Esher  in 
Surrey,  in  which  he  received  part  of  his  educa- 
tion, and  he  was  afterwards  sent  to  St.  Paul's 

»  See  p.  131  of  this  volume. 


School,  London.  Here  he  was  considered  one 
of  the  cleverest  pupils,  and  had  for  a  school- 
fellow Henry  S.  Woodfall,  afterwards  the 
printer  of  the  Letters.  In  1756,  when  in  his 
sixteenth  year,  Francis  received  through  the 
influence  of  Lord  Holland  a  clerkship  in  the 
secretary  of  stiite's  office.  His  ability  attracted 
the  notice  of  Mr.  Pitt,  who  succeeded  Lord 
Holland,  and  in  1758  he  was  on  Pitt's  recom- 
mendation appointed  secretary  to  General 
Bligh,  and  was  i)resent  at  the  capture  of  Cher- 


SIR   PHILIP   FRANCIS. 


305 


bourg.  In  1 760,  through  the  same  patronage, 
he  became  secretary  to  the  Earl  of  Kinnoul, 
and  accunipauied  that  nobleman  in  liis  em- 
bassy to  Lisbon.  In  1763  he  obtained  a  con- 
siderable post  in  the  war-ollice,  which  he  re- 
signed in  1772  in  consequence  of  a  difference 
with  Lord  Barriugton.  The  greater  part  of 
this  year  was  spent  by  Francis  in  a  visit  to 
the  Continent,  during  which  he  had  a  long 
audience  of  the  pope,  a  curious  account  of 
which  in  his  own  handwriting  is  among  the 
manuscripts  in  possession  of  liis  grandson.  On 
his  return  he  was  appointed  by  Lord  North 
one  of  the  civil  members  of  council  for  the 
government  of  Bengal,  and  sailed  for  India  in 
June,  1773.  His  conduct  at  the  council-board 
was  marked  by  a  constant  and  violent  opposi- 
tion to  the  policy  of  the  governor -general 
Warren  Hastings,  which  resulted  in  a  duel 
with  the  latter,  in  which  Francis  was  dan- 
gerously wounded.  The  resignation  of  his  post, 
worth  £10,000  a  year,  naturally  followed. 

Shortly  after  his  return  to  England  in  1781 
he  was  elected  member  of  parliament  for  Yar- 
mouth in  the  Isle  of  Wight.  In  the  house  he 
sujDported  Whig  principles,  joining  the  op- 
position then  led  by  Fox.  He  actively  pro- 
moted the  proceedings  which  ended  in  the 
impeachment  of  Hastings,  and  affoi'ded  valu- 
able information  and  advice  to  Burke  and 
the  other  managers  of  the  great  trial.  In 
1807  he  finally  retired  from  parliament.  His 
speeches  whilst  a  member,  notwithstanding  a 
defect  of  utterance  caused  by  an  over-sensi- 
bility of  temperament,  are  said  to  have  been 
remarkable  for  refinement,  simplicity,  energy, 
and  point.  In  1806  he  was  created  a  Knight 
of  the  Bath,  and  in  1816,  when  the  public 
curiosity  on  the  subject  of  the  Letters  had 
greatly  subsided,  attention  was  directed  to- 
wards Sir  Philip  Francis,  in  consequence  of 
the  ajjpearance  of  a  pamj^hlet  by  Mr.  John 
Taylor,  in  which  strong  evidence  was  adduced 
as  to  his  being  their  author.  Francis  denied 
the  authorship  in  a  somewhat  equivocal  way, 
and  in  1818,  while  the  question  was  still  hotly 
discussed,  he  died  in  his  seventy-ninth  year. 
He  published  a  number  of  political  speeches, 
Remarks  on  the  Defence  of  Warren  Hastings, 
Letters  on  the  East  India  Comfpany,  Reflections 
on  the  Currency/,  &c.,  Avhich  were  only  of  tem- 
porary interest,  and  are  now  forgotten. 

Although  fully  a  century  has  elapsed  since 
the  publication  of  the  Letters — although  vol- 
umes have  been  -svTitten  on  the  subject,  and 
the  most  prying  curiosity  and  industrious  in- 
genuity have  been  at  work  to  collect  evidence 
Vol.  I. 


on  the  point — we  have  as  yet  no  positive  proofs 
to  decide  the  question  who  was  their  real 
author.  Between  forty  and  fifty  names  of 
eminent  men  living  at  the  period  have  been 
brought  forward  and  advocated  at  various 
times,  including  those  of  Lord  Chatham, 
Burke,  Gibbon,  Grattan,  Pownall,  Rich,  Home 
Tooke,  Wilkes,  and  more  especially  Lord 
George  Sackville,  but  there  can  be  little  doubt 
that  the  claim  of  authorship  for  Sir  Philip 
Francis  still  remains  the  strongest.  The  argu- 
ments for  this  view  may  be  briefly  stated  as — 
his  absence  on  a  journey  to  the  Continent 
coincides  with  an  interruption  in  the  lettei-s ; 
his  departure  for  India  with  a  high  appoint- 
ment, with  their  cessation  ;  his  receiving  that 
appointment  without  any  apparent  cause,  just 
after  leaving  the  war-ofiice ;  his  station  in  the 
war-office,  with  all  the  details  of  which  Junius 
is  so  familiar  ;  his  knowledge  of  speeches  not 
reported  ;  coincidences  of  thought  and  expres- 
sion between  passages  of  the  letters  and  of 
speeches  of  Lord  Chatham,  reports  of  which 
had  been  furnished  by  Francis,  and  with  his 
own  speeches  made  after  his  return  from 
India ;  his  being  known  to  be  an  able  pamph- 
leteer ;  and  finally,  peculiar  modes  of  S2:)ell- 
ing  and  of  correcting  the  press,  and  resem- 
blance of  handwriting. 

The  Letter's  first  appeared  in  Woodfall's 
Public  Advertiser  at  a  time  of  great  political 
excitement,  and  were  directed  against  the 
principal  men  of  the  day  connected  with  the 
government,  not  sparing  even  royalty  itself. 
Forty-four  bear  the  signature  of  "Junius," 
the  earliest  of  which  is  dated  Jan.  21,  1769, 
the  last  Jan.  21,  1772.  In  the  latter  year 
they  were  collected  (the  collection  including 
also  fifteen  letters  signed  "  Philo  -  Junius," 
really  written  by  the  same  person),  revised  by 
Junius  who  added  notes,  and  published  by 
Woodfall,  with  a  Dedication  to  the  English 
Nation  and  a  Preface  by  the  Author.  Another 
edition  was  afterwards  issued,  containing  not 
only  the  lettere  of  Junius  proper,  but  also  his 
private  letters  to  Mr.  Woodfall,  his  correspond- 
ence with  Wilkes,  and  other  communications 
to  the  Advertiser  by  the  same  author  under 
different  signatures,  and  relating  to  different 
subjects,  but  all  marked  with  the  same  bold- 
ness, severity,  and  passion  which  characterize 
the  Letters  themselves.  Numerous  editions 
have  since  appeared,  among  others  an  enlarged 
and  improved  edition  in  1850  in  two  volumes, 
edited  by  Mr.  John  Wade,  who  in  an  essay 
prefixed  makes  out  a  strong  case  in  favour 
of  the  authorship  of  Sir  Philip  Francis.     A 

20 


306 


SIE  PHILIP   FEANCIS. 


recent  work  which  supports  the  same  view  is 
The  Handwriting  of  Junius  professionally  in- 
vestigated by  Mr.  Charles  Chahot,  Expert,  with 
preface  and  collateral  evidence  by  the  Hon. 
Edward  Twistleton  (London,  1871). 

Dr.  J.  Mason  Good,  in  his  Essay  on  Junius 
and  his  Writings,  says:  "The  classic  purity 
of  their  language,  the  exquisite  force  and  per- 
spicuity of  their  argument,  the  keen  severity 
of  their  reproach,  the  extensive  information 
they  evince,  their  fearless  and  decisive  tone, 
and,  above  all,  tlieir  stern  and  steady  attach- 
ment to  the  purest  principles  of  the  constitu- 
tion, acquii-ed  for  them,  with  an  almost  electric 
speed,  a  popularity  which  no  series  of  letters 
have  since  possessed,  nor  perhaps  ever  will ; 
and,  what  is  of  far  greater  consequence,  dif- 
fused among  the  body  a  clearer  knowledge  of 
their  constitutional  rights  than  they  had  ever 
before  attained,  and  animated  them  with  a 
more  determined  spirit  to  maintain  them  in- 
violate. " 


LETTER  LVII. 
TO  HIS   GRACE   THE  DUKE   OF  GKAFTON. 

September  28,  1771. 

My  Lord, — The  jieople  of  England  are  not 
apprised  of  the  full  extent  of  then-  obligations 
to  you.  They  have  yet  no  adequate  idea  of 
the  endless  variety  of  your  character.  They 
have  seen  you  distinguished  and  successful  in 
the  continued  violation  of  those  moral  and 
political  duties  by  which  the  little  as  well  as 
the  great  societies  of  life  are  collected  and 
held  together.  Every  colour,  every  character 
became  you.  With  a  rate  of  abilities  which 
Lord  Weymouth  very  justly  looks  down  upon 
with  contempt,  you  have  done  as  much  mis- 
chief to  the  community  jis  Cromwell  would 
have  done  if  Cromwell  had  been  a  coward ; 
and  as  much  as  Machiavel,  if  Machiavel  had 
not  known  that  an  appearance  of  morals  and 
religion  are  useful  in  society. 

To  a  thinking  man  the  influence  of  the  crown 
will,  in  no  view,  appear  so  formidable  as  when 
he  observes  to  what  enormous  excesses  it  has 
safely  conducted  your  grace,  without  a  ray  of 
real  understanding,  without  even  the  preten- 
sions to  common  decency  or  principle  of  any 
kind,  or  a  single  »park  of  personal  resolution. 
"What  must  be  the  oi)eration  of  that  pernicious 
influence  (for  which  our  kings  have  wisely  ex- 
changed the  nugatory  name  of  prerogative)  that 


in  the  highest  stations  can  so  abundantly  sup- 
j^ly  the  absence  of  virtue,  courage,  and  abilities, 
and  qualify  a  man  to  be  the  minister  of  a  great 
nation,  whom  a  private  gentleman  would  be 
ashamed  and  afraid  to  admit  into  his  family ! 
Like  the  universal  passjjort  of  an  ambassador, 
it  supersedes  the  prohibition  of  the  laws, 
banishes  the  staple  viitues  of  the  country,  and 
introduces  vice  and  folly  triumphantly  into  all 
the  depai'tments  of  the  state.  Other  princes 
besides  his  majesty  have  had  the  means  of 
corruption  within  their  reach,  but  they  have 
used  it  with  moderation.  In  former  times 
corruption  was  considered  as  a  foreign  auxil- 
iary to  government,  and  only  called  in  upon 
extraordinary  emergencies.  The  unfeigned 
piety,  the  sanctified  religion  of  George  III., 
have  taught  him  to  new  model  the  civil  forces 
of  the  state.  The  natural  resources  of  the 
crown  are  no  longer  confided  in.  Corruption 
glitters  in  the  van,  collects  and  maintains  a 
standing  army  of  mercenaries,  and  at  the 
same  moment  impoverishes  and  enslaves  the 
country.  His  majesty's  predecessora  (except- 
ing that  worthy  family  from  which  you,  my 
lord,  are  unquestionably  descended)  had  some 
generous  qualities  in  their  composition,  with 
vices,  I  confess,  or  frailties,  in  abundance. 
They  were  kings  or  gentlemen,  not  hypocrites 
or  priests.  They  were  at  the  head  of  the 
church,  but  did  not  know  the  value  of  their 
office.  They  said  their  prayers  without  cere- 
mony, and  had  too  little  priestcraft  in  their 
understanding  to  reconcile  the  sanctimonious 
forms  of  religion  with  the  utter  destruction  of 
the  morality  of  their  people.  My  lord,  this  is 
fact,  not  declamation.  With  all  your  partial- 
ity to  the  house  of  Stuart  you  must  confess 
that  even  Charles  II.  would  have  blushed  at 
that  ojoen  encouragement,  at  those  eager, 
meretricious  caresses,  with  which  every  species 
of  private  vice  and  public  prostitution  is 
received  at  St.  James's.  The  unfortunate 
house  of  Stuart  has  been  treated  with  an 
asperity  which,  if  comparison  be  a  defence, 
seems  to  border  upon  injustice.  Neither 
Charles  nor  his  brother  were  qualified  to  sup- 
port such  a  system  of  measures  as  would  be 
necessary  to  change  the  government  and  sub- 
vert the  constitution  of  England.  One  of 
them  was  too  much  in  earnest  in  his  pleasures, 
the  other  in  his  religion.  But  the  danger  to 
this  country  would  cease  to  be  problematical 
if  the  crown  should  ever  descend  to  a  jjrince 
whose  aj)parent  simplicity  might  throw  his 
subjects  ofi"  their  guard,  who  might  be  no 
libertine  in  behaviour,  who  should  have  no 


SIR  PHILIP   FEANCIS. 


307 


sense  of  houonr  to  restrain  him,  and  who,  I 
with  just  religion  enough  to  impose  upon  the 
multitude,  might  have  no  scruples  of  conscience 
to  interfere  with  his  morality.  With  these 
honourable  qualifications,  and  the  decisive 
advantage  of  situation,  low  craft  and  falsehood 
are  all  the  abilities  that  are  wanting  to  destroy 
the  wisdom  of  ages,  and  to  deface  the  noblest 
monument  that  human  policy  has  erected. — 
I  know  such  a  man — my  lord,  I  know  you 
both — and,  with  the  blessing  of  God  (for  I, 
too,  am  religious),  the  people  of  England  shall 
know  you  as  well  as  I  do.  I  am  not  very 
sure  that  greater  abilities  would  not,  in  elfect, 
be  an  impediment  to  a  design  which  seems, 
at  first  sight,  to  require  a  superior  capacity. 
A  better  understanding  might  make  him  sen- 
sible of  the  wonderful  beauty  of  that  system 
he  was  endeavom-ing  to  corrupt ;  the  danger 
of  the  attempt  might  alarm  him ;  the  mean- 
ness and  intrinsic  worthlessness  of  the  object 
(supposing  he  could  attain  to  it)  would  fill  him 
with  shame,  repentance,  and  disgust.  But 
these  are  sensations  which  find  no  entrance 
into  a  barbarous,  contracted  heart.  In  some 
men  there  is  a  malignant  passion  to  destroy 
the  works  of  genius,  literature,  and  freedom. 
The  Vandal  and  the  monk  find  equal  gratifi- 
cation in  it. 

Reflections  like  these,  my  lord,  have  a 
general  relation  to  your  grace,  and  insepar- 
ably attend  you  in  whatever  company  or 
situation  your  character  occurs  to  us.  They 
have  no  immediate  connection  with  the  foUow- 
iug  recent  fact,  which  I  lay  before  the  public, 
for  the  honour  of  the  best  of  sovereigns  and 
for  the  edification  of  his  people. 

A  prince  (whose  piety  and  self-denial,  one 
would  think,  might  secure  him  from  such  a  mul- 
titude of  worldly  necessities)  with  an  annual 
revenue  of  near  a  million  sterling,  unfortun- 
ately wants  money.  The  navy  of  England,  by 
an  equally  strange  concurrence  of  unforeseen 
circumstances  (though  not  quite  so  unfortun- 
ately for  his  majesty),  is  in  equal  want  of  timber. 
The  world  knows  in  what  a  hopeful  condition 
you  delivered  the  navy  to  your  successor,  and 
in  what  a  condition  we  found  it  in  the  moment 
of  distress.  You  were  determined  it  should 
continue  in  the  situation  in  which  you  left  it. 
It  happened,  however,  very  luckily  for  the 
privy  pm-se,  that  one  of  the  above  wants  pro- 
mised fair  to  supply  the  other.  Our  religious, 
benevolent,  generous  sovereign  has  no  objec- 
tion to  selling  his  own  timber  to  his  oicn  ad- 
miralty, to  repair  his  own  ships,  nor  to  put- 
ting the  money  into  his  own  pocket.     People 


of  a  religious  turn  naturally  adhere  to  the 
principles  of  the  church;  whatever  they  ac- 
quire falls  into  mort-main.     Upon  a  rejjreseu- 
tation  from  the  admiralty  of  the  extraordinary 
want  of  timber  for  the  indispensable  repairs 
of  the  navy  the  surveyor-general  was  directed 
to  make  a  survey  of  the  timber  in  all  the  royal 
chases  and  forests  in  England.    Having  obeyed 
his  orders  with  accuracy  and  attention,  he 
reported  that  the  finest  timber  he  had  any- 
where met  with,  and  the  properest,  in  every 
respect,  for  the  purposes  of  the  navy,  was  in 
Whittlebury  Forest,  of  which  your  grace,  I 
think,  is  hereditary  ranger.     In  consequence 
of  this  report  the  usual  waiTant  was  prepared 
at  the  treasury  and  delivered  to  the  surveyor, 
by  which  he  or  his  deputy  were  authorized 
to  cut  down  any  trees  in  "Whittlebury  Forest 
which  should  appear  to  be  proper  for  the  pur- 
poses above-mentioned.     The   deputy   being 
informed  that  the  warrant  was  signed,  and 
delivered  to  his  principal  in  London,  crosses 
the  country  to  Northamptonshire,  and  with 
an  officious  zeal  for  the  public  service  begins 
to  do  his  duty  in  the  forest.     Unfortunately 
for  him,  he  had  not  the  warrant  in  his  pocket. 
The  oversight  was  enormous,  and  you  have 
punished  him  for  it  accordingly.     You  liave 
insisted  that  an  active,  useful  officer  should  be 
dismissed  from  his  place.     You  have  niined 
an  innocent  man  and  his  family.     In  what 
language  shall  I  address  so  black,  so  cowardly 
a  tyrant?    Thou  worse  than  one  of  the  Bruns- 
wicks,  and  all  the  Stuarts !     To  them  who 
know  Lord  North  it  is  unnecessary  to  say 
that  he  was  mean  and  base  enough  to  submit 
to  you.     This,  however,  is  but  a  small  part  of 
the  fact.    After  ruining  the  surveyoi-'s  deputy 
for  acting  without  the  warrant,  you  attacked 
the   warrant    itself.      You   declared   it  was 
illegal;  and  swore,  in  a  fit  of  foaming  frantic 
passion,  that   it  never  should   be  executed. 
You  asserted,  upon  your  honour,  that  in  the 
grant  of  the  rangership  of  Whittlebury  Forest, 
made  by  Charles  II.  (whom,  with  a  modesty 
that  would  do  honour  to  Mr.  Rigby,  you  are 
pleased  to  call  your  ancestor)  to  one  of  his 
bastards  (from  whom  I  make  no  doubt  of  your 
descent),  th6  property  of  the  timber  is  vested 
in  the  ranger.     I  have  examined  the  original 
grant;   and  now,  in  the  face  of  the  public, 
contradict  you  directly  upon  the  fact.     The 
very  reverse  of  what  you  have  asserted  upon 
your  honour  is  the  truth.    The  grant,  expressly, 
and  by  a  particular  clause,  reserves  the  pro- 
perty of  the  timber  for  the  use  of  the  crown. 
In  spite  of  this  evidence,  in  defiance  of  the 


308 


WILLIAM   DRENNAN,   M.D. 


representations  of  the  admiralty,  in  perfect 
mockery  of  the  notorious  distresses  of  the 
English  navy,  and  those  equally  pressing  and 
almost  equally  notorious  necessities  of  your 
pious  sovereign,  here  the  matter  rests.  The 
lords  of  the  treasury  recal  their  warrant ; 
the  deputy-surveyor  is  ruined  for  doing  his 
duty ;  Mr.  John  Pitt  (whose  name,  I  suppose, 
is  offensive  to  you)  submits  to  be  brow-beaten 
and  insulted ;  the  oaks  keep  their  ground ;  the 
king  is  defrauded ;  and  the  navy  of  England 
may  perish  for  want  of  the  best  and  finest 
timber  in  the  island.  And  all  this  is  sub- 
mitted to  to  appease  the  Duke  of  Grafton !  to 
gratify  the  man  who  has  involved  the  king 
and  his  kingdom  in  confusion  and  distress; 
and  who,  like  a  treacherous  coward,  deserted 
his  sovereign  in  the  midst  of  it ! 

There  has  been  a  strange  alteration  in  your 
doctrine  since  you  thought  it  advisable  to  rob 
the  Duke  of  Portland  of  his  property  in  order 
to  strengthen  the  interest  of  Lord  Bute's  son- 
in-law  before  the  last  general  election.  Nul- 
lum tempus  occurrit  regi  was  then  your  boasted 
motto,  and  the  cry  of  all  your  himgry  parti- 
sans. Now  it  seems  a  gi-ant  of  Charles  II. 
to  one  of  his  bastards  is  to  be  held  sacred 
and  inviolable!  It  must  not  be  questioned 
by  the  king^s  servants,  nor  submitted  to 
any  interpretation  but  your  own.      My  lord, 


this  was  not  the  language  you  held  when 
it  suited  you  to  insult  the  memory  of  the 
glorious  deliverer  of  England  from  that  de- 
tested family,  to  which  you  are  still  more 
nearly  allied  in^  principle  than  in  blood.  In 
the  name  of  decency  and  common  sense,  what 
are  your  grace's  merits,  either  with  king  or 
ministry,  that  should  entitle  you  to  assume 
this  domineering  authority  over  both?  Is  it 
the  fortunate  consanguinity  you  claim  with 
the  house  of  Stuart?  Is  it  the  secret  corres- 
pondence you  have  for  so  many  years  carried  on 
with  Lord  Bute,  by  the  assiduous  assistance 
of  your  cream-coloured  parasite?^  Could  not 
your  gallantry  find  sufficient  employment  for 
him  in  those  gentle  offices  by  which  he  first 
acquired  the  tender  friendship  of  Lord  Bar- 
rington?  Or  is  it  only  that  woudei-ful  sym- 
pathy of  manners  which  subsists  between  your 
ga-ace  and  one  of  your  superiors,  and  does  so 
much  honour  to  you  both  ?  Is  the  union  of 
Blifil  and  Black  George  no  longer  a  romance  ? 
From  whatever  origin  your  influence  in  this 
country  arises,  it  is  a  phenomenon  in  the  his- 
tory of  human  virtue  and  understanding. 
Good  men  can  hardly  believe  the  fact;  wise 
men  are  unable  to  account  for  it.  Eeligious 
men  find  exercise  for  their  faith,  and  make  it 
the  last  efi"ort  of  their  piety  not  to  repine 
against  Providence.  Junius. 


WILLIAM     DRENNAN,     M.D. 

Born  1754  — Died  1820. 


[Dr.  Drennan,  poet  and  political  writer,  was 
born  in  Belfast  in  1754.  His  father,  who  was 
a  Presbyterian  clergyxuan,  sent  William  to 
study  medicine  in  the  University  of  Edin- 
burgh, where  he  took  his  degree  of  M.D.  in 
1778,  practised  for  some  yeai's  in  Belfast  and 
Newry,  and  removed  to  Dublin  in  1789. 
Holding  strong  political  sentiments,  he  became 
one  of  the  ablest  writers  in  favour  of  the 
United  Irishmen  movement,  and  his  Letters 
of  OreVana  had  much  to  do  in  getting  Ulster 
to  join  the  league.  In  1794  he  and  Mr.  Rowan 
were  put  on  trial  for  issuing  the  famous 
Address  of  the  United  Irishmen  to  the  Volun- 
teers of  Ireland.  Curran  defended  Rowan, 
who  however  wa.s  fined  in  £500  and  sen- 
tenced to  two  years'  imprisonment;  while 
Drennan,  who  was  the  real  writer  of  the  paper, 
had  the  good  fortune  to  be  acquitted.     He 


afterwards  removed  to  Belfast,  where  he  com- 
menced the  Belfast  Magazine.  In  1815  he 
issued  a  little  volume  entitled  Glendalough 
and  other  Poems,  which  is  now  very  rare.  He 
died  in  February,  1820,  leaving  behind  him  two 
sons,  who  have  both  found  time,  amidst  their 
professional  pursuits,  to  write  some  gi'aceful 
verses. 

Drennan's  songs  and  ballads  are  vigorous 
and  gi-aceful ;  his  hymns  also  possess  much 
beauty.  Moore  is  said  to  have  esteemed 
"  When  Erin  First  Rose"  as  among  the  most 
perfect  of  modern  songs :  from  it  Ireland  re- 
ceived the  title  of  the  "  Emerald  Isle."  His 
"  Wake  of  William  Oit"  electrified  the  nation 
on  its  appearance,  and  did  more  hurt  to  the 
government  than  the  loss  of  a  battle.l 

1  Mr.  Bradsliiiw,  the  <luko's  secittary. 


WILLIAM   DEENNAN,   M.D. 


309 


THE  WAKE  OF  WILLIAM  OER. 

Here  our  murdered  brother  lies; 
Wake  him  not  with  women's  cries. 
Mourn  the  way  that  manhood  ought; 
Sit  in  silent  trance  of  thought. 

Write  his  merits  on  your  mind: 
Morals  pure  and  manners  kind; 
In  his  head,  as  on  a  hill, 
Virtue  placed  her  citadel. 

Why  cut  off  in  palmy  youth? 
Truth  he  spoke,  and  acted  truth. 
Countrymen,  unite,  he  cried, 
And  died — for  what  his  Saviour  died. 

God  of  Peace,  and  God  of  Love, 
Let  it  not  thy  vengeance  move, 
Let  it  not  thy  lightnings  draw, — 
A  nation  guillotined  by  law. 

Hapless  nation  !  rent  and  torn, 
Thou  wert  early  taught  to  mourn, — 
Warfare  of  six  hundred  years ! 
Epochs  mark'd  with  blood  and  tears ! 

Hunted  through  thy  native  grounds, 
Or  flung  reward  to  human  hounds; 
Each  one  pull'd  and  tore  his  share, 
Heedless  of  thy  deep  despair ! 

Hapless  nation — hapless  land, 
Heap  of  uncementing  sand  ! 
Crumbled  by  a  foreign  weight; 
And  by  worse — domestic  hate. 

God  of  mercy !  God  of  peace ! 
Make  the  mad  confusion  cease; 
O'er  the  mental  chaos  move. 
Through  it  speak  the  light  of  love. 

Monstrous  and  unhappy  sight ! 
Brothers'  blood  will  not  unite; 
Holy  oil  and  holy  water 
Mix,  and  fill  the  world  with  slaughter. 

Who  is  she  with  aspect  wild? 
The  widow'd  mother  with  her  child, 
Child  new  stirring  in  the  womb ! 
Husband  waiting  for  the  tomb ! 

Angel  of  this  sacred  place. 
Calm  her  soul  and  whisper  peace; 
Cord,  or  axe,  or  guillotin' 
Make  the  sentence — not  the  sin. 

Here  we  watch  our  brother's  .sleep; 
Watch  with  u.s,  but  do  not  weep; 
Watch  with  us  through  dead  of  night, 
But  expect  the  morning  light. 


Conquer  fortune — persevere! — 
Lo!  it  breaks,  the  morning  clear! 
The  cheerful  cock  awakes  the  skies, 
The  day  is  come — arise! — arise! 


WHEN  ERIN   FIRST  ROSE. 

When  Erin  first  rose  from  the  dark  swelling  flood, 
God  bless'd  the  green  island  and  saw  it  was  good; 
The  em'rald  of  Europe,  it  sparkled  and  shone. 
In  the  ring  of  the  world  the  most  precious  stone. 
In  her  sun,  in  her  soil,  in  her  station  thrice  blest, 
With  her  back  towards  Britain,  her  face  to  the 

West, 
Erin  stands  proudly  insular,  on  her  steep  shore, 
And  strikes  her  high  harp  'mid  the  ocean's  deep 

roar. 

But  when  its  soft  tones  seem  to  mourn  and  to 

weep. 
The  dark  chain  of  silence  is  thrown  o'er  the  deep; 
At  the  thought  of  the  past  the  tears  gush  from 

her  eyes. 
And  the  pulse  of  her  heart  makes  her  white  bosom 

rise. 
0!  sons  of  green  Erin,  lament  o'er  the  time 
AVhen  religion  was  war,  and  our  country  a  crime, 
When  man  in  God's  image  inverted  his  plan. 
And  moulded  his  God  in  the  image  of  man. 

When  the  int'rest  of  state  wrought  the  general  woe, 
The  stranger  a  friend,  and  the  native  a  foe; 
While  the  mother  rejoic'd  o'er  her  children  op- 


And  clasp'd  the  invader  more  close  to  her  breast. 
When  with  pale  for  the  body  and  pale  for  the  .soul. 
Church  and  state  joined  in  compact  to  conquer 

the  whole; 
And  as  Shannon  was  stained  with  Milesian  blood, 
Ey'd  each  other  askance  and  pronounced  it  was 


By  the  groans  that  ascend  from  your  forefathers' 

grave 
For  their  countrj'  thus  left  to  the  brute  and  the 

slave. 
Drive  the  demon  of  bigotry  home  to  his  den. 
And  where   Britain  made   brutes  now  let   Erin 

make  men. 
Let  my  sons  like  the  leaves  of  the  shamrock  unite, 
A  partition  of  sects  from  one  footstalk  of  right, 
Give  each  his  full  share  of  the  earth  and  the  sky. 
Nor  fatten  the  slave  where  the  serpent  would  die. 

Alas!  for  poor  Erin  that  some  are  still  seen. 
Who  would  dye  the  grass  red  from  their  hatred  to 

green ; 
Yet,  oh!  when  you're  up,  and  they're  down,  let 

them  live, 


310 


WILLIAM   DRENNAN,   M.D. 


Then  yield  them  that  mercy  which  they  would 

not  give. 
Arm  of  Erin,  be  strong!  but  be  gentle  as  brave; 
And  uplifted  to  strike,  be  still  ready  to  save; 
Let  no  feeling  of  vengeance  presume  to  defile 
The  cause  of,  or  men  of,  the  Emerald  Isle. 

The  cause  it  is  good,  and  the  men  they  are  true. 
And  the  Green  shall  outlive  both  the  Orange  and 

Blue. 
And  the  triumphs  of  Erin  her  daughters  shall 

share, 
With  the  full  swelling  chest,  and  the  fair  flowing 

hair. 
Their  bosoms  heave  high  for  the  worthy  and  brave, 
But  no  coward  shall  rest  in  that  soft-swelling  wave; 
Men  of  Erin!  awake,  and  make  haste  to  be  blest! 
Rise!  arch  of  the  ocean,  and  queen  of  the  West! 


O   SWEETER  THAN  THE  FRAGRANT 
FLOWER. 

0  sweeter  than  the  fragrant  flower. 

At  evening's  dewy  close, 
The  will,  united  with  the  power, 

To  succour  human  woes! 

And  softer  than  the  softest  strain 

Of  music  to  the  ear. 
The  placid  joy  we  give  and  gain. 

By  gratitude  sincere. 

The  husbandman  goes  forth  a-field; 

What  hopes  his  heart  expand! 
What  calm  delight  his  labours  yield! 

A  harvest — from  his  hand! 

A  hand  that  providently  throws, 

Not  dissipates  in  vain; 
How  neat  his  field!  how  clean  it  grows! 

What  produce  from  each  grain! 

The  nobler  husbandry  of  mind. 

And  culture  of  the  heart, — 
Shall  this  with  men  less  favour  find. 

Less  genuine  joy  impart? 

0!  no — your  goodness  strikes  a  root 

That  dies  not,  nor  decays — 
And  future  life  shall  yield  the  fruit. 

Which  blossoms  now  in  praise. 

The  youthful  hopes,  that  now  expand 
Their  green  and  tender  leaves. 

Shall  spread  a  plenty  o'er  the  land. 
In  rich  and  yellow  sheaves. 

Thus,  a  small  bounty  well  bestowed 
May  perfect  Heaven's  high  plan; 


First  daughter  to  the  love  of  God, 
Is  Charity  to  Man. 

'Tis  he  who  scatters  blessings  round 

Adores  his  Maker  best; 
His  walk  through  life  is  mercy-crowned, 

His  bed  of  death  is  blest. 


THE   WILD   GEESE.' 

How  solemn  sad  by  Shannon's  flood 

The  blush  of  morning  sun  appears! 
To  men  who  gave  for  us  their  blood. 

Ah!  what  can  woman  give  but  tears? 
How  still  the  field  of  battle  lies! 

No  shouts  upon  the  breeze  are  blown! 
We  heard  our  dying  country's  cries, 

We  sit  deserted  and  alone, 

Ogh  hone,  ogh  hone,  ogh  hone,  ogh  hone 
Ogh  hone,  &c.. 

Ah!  what  can  woman  give  but  tears! 

Why  thus  collected  on  the  strand 

Whom  3'et  the  God  of  mercy  saves. 
Will  ye  forsake  your  native  land? 

Will  you  desert  your  brothers'  graves  ? 
Their  graves  give  forth  a  fearful  groan — 

Oh !  guard  your  orphans  and  your  M'ives; 
Like  us,  make  Erin's  cause  your  own, 

Like  us,  for  her  yield  up  your  lives. 

Ogh  hone,  ogh  hone,  ogh  hone,  ogh  hone, 
Ogh  hone,  &c.. 

Like  us,  for  her  yield  up  your  lives. 


MY   FATHER. 

Who  took  me  from  my  mother's  arms, 

And,  smiling  at  her  soft  alarms, 

Showed  me  the  world  and  Nature's  charms? 

Who  made  me  feel  and  understand 

The  wonders  of  the  sea  and  land, 

And  mark,  through  all,  the  Maker's  hand  ? 

Who  climbed  with  me  the  mountain's  height, 
And  watched  my  look  of  dread  delight. 
While  rose  the  glorious  orb  of  light? 

Who  from  each  flower  and  verdant  stalk 
Gathered  a  honey'd  store  of  talk. 
And  fill'd  the  long,  delightful  walk? 

Not  on  an  insect  would  he  tread, 
Nor  strike  the  stinging-nettle  dead — 
Who  taught,  at  once,  my  heart  and  head :' 


1  The  "  wild  geese  "  was  the  popular  name  of  the  men 
of  the  Irish  Urigade. 


WILLIAM   DKENNAN,   M.D. 


311 


Who  fired  my  breast  with  Homer's  fame, 
And  taught  the  high  heroic  theme 
That  niglitly  flashed  upon  my  dream? 

Who  smiled  at  my  supreme  desire 
To  see  the  curling  smoke  aspire 
From  Ithaca's  domestic  fire? 

Who,  with  Ulysses,  saw  me  roam, 
High  on  the  raft,  amidst  the  foam, 
His  head  upraised  to  look  for  home? 

"What  made  a  barren  rock  so  dear?" 
"My  boy,  he  had  a  country  there !" 
And  who,  then,  dropped  a  precious  tear? 

Who  now,  in  pale  and  placid  light 
Of  memory,  gleams  upon  my  sight, 
Bursting  the  sepulchre  of  night? 

0!  teach  me  still  thy  Christian  plan. 
For  practice  with  thy  precept  ran. 
Nor  yet  desert  me,  now  a  man. 


Still  let  thy  scholar's  heart  rejoice 

With  charm  of  thy  angelic  voice; 

Still  prompt  the  motive  and  the  choice — 

For  yet  remains  a  little  space, 
Till  1  shall  meet  thee  face  to  face, 
iind  not,  as  now,  in  vain  embrace — 

My  Father! 


A   SONG   FROM   THE   IRISH. 

Branch  of  the  sweet  and  early  rose. 
That  in  the  purest  beauty  grows, 
So  passing  sweet  to  smell  and  sight. 
On  whom  shalt  thou  bestow  delight? 

Who,  in  the  dewy  evening  walk. 
Shall  pluck  thee  from  the  tender  stalk? 
Whose  temples  blushing  shalt  thou  twine; 
And  who  inhale  thy  breath  divine? 


END   OF   VOL.    I 


THE 

GRESHAn   PUBLISHING  COnPANY 

34   SOUTHAMPTON    STREET,    STRAND,    LONDON,    W.C. 

•t-      -t-      -^      -t-      -t'      -t-      -i-      -t- 
A    NEW  CENTURY:    A   NEW  ENCYCLOPEDIA 


The  New  Popular 
Encyclopedia. 


A  LIBRARY  IN  ITSELF.  A  General  Dic- 
tionary of  Arts,  Sciences,  Literature,  Biography, 
and  History.  Edited  by  Charles  Annandale, 
M.A.,  LL.D.,  Editor  of  Ogilvie's  "Imperial  Dic- 
tionary of  the  English  Language".  Profusely  illustrated.  In  14  handsome  volumes,  super- 
royal  8vo,  in  Roxburgh  library  binding,  i2i-.  6d.  per  volume,  net. 


A  New  Century  demands  a  New  Encyclopedia.  As  time  advances,  knowledge  increases.  To 
sum  up  that  knowledge  a  new  Encyclopedia  is  required,  and  everyone  ought  to  possess  that  new- 
Encyclopedia. 

The  Gresham  Publishing  Company,  having  acquired  exclusive  control  of  the  well-known  POPULAR 
Encyclopedia,  are  now  issuing  a  New  and  Revised  Edition  of  that  famous  authoritative  work  of 
reference. 

The  entire  work  has  been  revised  to  date  under  the  editorship  of  Dr.  Charles  Annandale,  assisted  by 
a  staff  of  Specialists  and  Encyclopedic  Experts. 

The  New  Popular  Encyclopedia  is  a  worthy  successor  to  the  previous  edition,  which  numbered 
among  its  contributors  men  of  the  high  position  of  Lokd  Kelvin,  Sir  Andrew  C.  Ramsay,  Pro- 
fessor J.  D.  Everett,  Mr.  Comyns  Carr,  Captain  Ord-Brown,  Mr.  M.  M.  Pattison-Muir,  &c. 

In  the  matter  of  pictorial  illustration  the  New  Popular  Encyclopedia  is  alone  of  its  kind.  In  no 
British  Encyclopedia,  not  even  in  previous  editions  of  the  Popular,  has  so  extensive  a  use  been  made 
of  the  pictorial  arts  to  assist  the  elucidation  of  the  subject-matter.  In  addition  to  the  large  number  of 
plates  in  colour,  there  are  very  many  plates  in  black  and  white :  pictures  of  machinery-detail,  portraits, 
ordnance  such  as  Vickers,  Creuzot,  and  Krupp  guns,  flying -machines,  ethnological  types,  and  the 
hundred-and-one  different  objects  which  can  be  rendered  clearer  by  the  use  of  pictorial  illustration.  A 
complete  series  of  Maps  is  also  provided. 

The  Supplements  form  a  very  special  feature  of  the  New  Popular.  Besides  containing  many  articles 
on  general  subjects  they  give  biographies  of  living  men  or  of  men  recently  deceased.  Thus  we  have 
Mr.  Chamberlain,  Mr.  Krugek,  Lord  Salisbury,  Lord  Rosebery,  Mr.  Arthur  Balfour, 
Mr.  George  Wyndham,  Lord  Roberts,  General  Buller,  Major-General  Baden-Powell 
(whose  brother.  Major  Baden-Powell,  secretary  of  the  Aeronautical  Society,  contributes  the  Article  on 
Aeronautics),  &c.,  &c. 

"The  New  Popular  Encyclopedia"  is  a  perfect  library  in  itself,  superseding,  practically,  the 
necessity  of  having  recourse  to  a  large  number  of  books  on  different  topics,  and  furnishing,  at  moder- 
ate cost,  a  complete  body  of  information  on  all  subjects. 

It  is  a  Universal  Gazetteer,  giving  accounts  of  the  natural  and  political  divisions,  countries, 
cities,  rivers,  lakes,  &c. ,  throughout  the  world. 

It  is  a  Universal  History,  in  which  are  to  be  found  full  general  accounts  of  all  the  countries 
of  the  world,  with  important  events  and  details  treated  at  length  under  specific  headings. 

It  is  a  Biographical  Dictionary — giving  the  lives  of  all  important  historic  characters,  statesmen, 
lawyers,  literary  men,  scientists,  inventors,  engineers,  artists,  musicians,  theologians,  <S:c. 

It  is  a  Commercial  Dictionary,  explaining  economic  principles,  treating  fully  the  practical  details 
of  the  chief  industries,  and  giving  elaborate  accounts  of  manufacturing  processes. 

It  is  a  Dictionary  of  the  Sciences — Students  of  natural  history,  botany,  geology,  astronomy, 
chemistry,  &c.,  will  find  an  ample  general  record  of  modern  progress  in  the  special  sciences. 

It  is  a  Dictionary  of  the  Fine  Arts,  explaining  the  technical  terms,  theories,  and  processes, 
and  giving  a  historic  and  biographical  record  of  the  various  branches  of  the  Arts. 

"The  New  Popular  Encyclopedia"  is,  moreover,  a  Dictionary  of  the  Practical  Arts  and 
Handicrafts,  of  Law,  Medicine,  Household  Matters,  Education,  Music,  Games,  and  Sports. 

Prospectus  of  any  Book  post  free. 

[20]  1  A 


The  Gresham  Publishing  Company. 


npl^ -^     Hrkff  Crf^l^rklrl       ^  Family  Guide  to  the  Preservation  of  Health  and  to 
1  lie     1  lUU^CIIUILI       ^^i-jg    Domestic   Treatment  of   Ailments  and    Disease. 

By  J.  M'Gregor-Robertson,  m.b.  cm.  (Hon.).  With 


Phy 


dlClctll*  ^^    Introduction    by    Professor    M'Kendrick,    m.d., 

LL.D.,  F.R.S.,  Glasgow  University.  Illustrated  by  about  400  figures  in  the  text,  and  a  Series 
of  Engraved  Plates.  In  4  divisions,  super-royal  8vo,  cloth,  at  gs.  net  each;  also  in  i  volume, 
Roxburgh  binding,  ^i,  ly.  net;  2  volumes,  ditto,  ^i,  lys.  net. 

One  aim  of  this  book  is  to  supply  in  as  plain  language  as  can  be  used  some  knowledge  of  what  science 
has  to  say  as  to  the  body  which  we  inhabit ;  the  second  aim  is  to  give  reliable  assistance  in  the  domestic 
treatment  of  simple  ailments.  The  bodily  ills  to  which  young  and  old  are  liable  are  considered  more 
fully  than  is  usual  in  popular  works. 

The  first  portion  of  the  book  treats  of  the  human  body  in  health,  and  the  various  changes  produced  by 
disease.  This  part  has  been  divided  into  sections,  each  section  being  devoted  to  one  set  of  organs.  For 
example,  the  bones  and  joints  are  considered  in  one  section,  the  nervous  system  in  another,  the  digestive 
organs  in  a  third,  and  so  on.  The  first  half  of  each  section  describes  the  particular  organs  in  their 
healthy  condition,  and  the  second  half  discusses  the  diseases  to  which  they  are  liable.  By  this  method 
the  healthy  and  diseased  states  of  each  part  of  the  body  are  placed  in  relationship  to,  and  mutually 
explain,  one  another.  This  section,  moreover,  contains  special  chapters  on  the  Management  of 
Children  in  Health,  the  Diseases  of  Childhood,  and  the  Diseases  of  Women. 

The  second  portion  of  the  book  is  devoted  to  Hygiene,  or  the  conditions  of  health  as  regards  Food, 
Drink,  Clothing,  Exercise,  &c.,  and  the  rules  to  be  observed  for  the  promotion  of  health,  both  of 
individuals  and  communities.  Details  are  given  of  the  requirements  of  a  Healthy  House,  in  its 
construction,  ventilation,  water-supply,  drainage,  &c. 

In  the  third  portion  of  the  work  the  nature  and  mode  of  Action  of  Drugs  and  other  remedial  agents 
are  explained.  But  this  part  includes  more  than  mere  drugs.  Electricity,  an  agent  as  valuable  in 
medicine  as  it  is  in  commerce,  and  Massage,  or  medical  rubbing,  another  new  and  formidable  an- 
tagonist to  ill-health,  will  also  be  fully  treated. 

In  the  remaining  portion  of  the  book  the  methods  of  dealing  with  Accidents  and  Emergencies 
find  a  place,  and  the  commoner  Surgical  Instruments  are  described  and  their  mode  of  use  ex- 
plained; Sick-nursing  receives  attention,  and  recipes  for  Invalid  Cookery  and  Notes  of  Medical 
Prescriptions  are  given. 

The  Illustrations  are  very  numerous,  consisting  of  about  four  hundred  figures  printed  in 
the  text,  and  a  series  of  thirty-one  engraved  plates,  many  of  which  are  in  colours. 


A    GREAT  HISTORICAL    WORK. 


From    the    Earliest    to    the    Latest   Times.      By 
Rev.  Thomas  Thomson  and  Charles  Annan- 


A  History  of  the 

^rnff  ich      Pp^nnlp*  ^^\^-^,  m.a.,  ll.d.     with  40  Original  Designs  by 

^ki^ULLI^Il     f^CUpiC  YiA.  H.  Margetson,  Alfred  Pearse,  Walter 

Paget,  (jordon  Browne,  and  other  eminent  artists.     In  6  divisional  volumes,  super-royal 

8vo,  cloth  elegant,  Zs.  6d.  net  each. 

The  main  features  may  be  stated  as  follows : 

It  is  a  full  and  aetailed  History  of  Scotland  from  the  Earliest  Times  to  the  Latest. 

It   is  a    History  of  the    Scottish    People,    their    manners,    customs,    and    modes  of  living    at    the 
various  successive  periods. 

It  is  a  History  of  Religion  and  Ecclesiastical  Affairs  in  Scotland. 

It  is  a  History  of  Scotland's  progress  in  Commerce,  Industry,  Arts,  Science,  and  Literature, 

It  is  illustrated  by  a  series  of  original  designs  reproduced  in  facsimile  from  drawings  by  eminent 
artists. 


Prospectus  of  any  Book  post  free. 


The  Gresham  Publishing  Company. 


NEW  EDITION,  REVISED  AND  GREATLY  AUCMENTED. 


VIP'^       OF   THE    ENGLISH    LANGUAGE.      A   complete    Encyclopedic 
^  Lexicon,  Literary,  Etymological,  Scientific,  Technological,  and  Pro- 


Ogil 

Imperial    Dictionary   :::'"L.,\r  ".^.^irrbrabiv^ 

three  thousand  engravings  on  wood,  besides  a  splendid  series  of  full-page  plates,  many  of 
which  are  coloured.  This  edition  of  the  Imperial  Dictionary  is  beautifully  printed  on 
paper  of  imperial  size,  specially  made  for  the  Work.  It  is  issued  in  eight  Divisional 
Volumes  of  a  handy  size  for  reference,  bound  in  cloth,  with  a  fine  design  on  side,  at  \os.  net 
each  volume. 

The  reception  accorded  by  the  press  and  the  public  to  this  new  edition  of  the  Imperial 
Dictionary  has  been  such  as  to  show  that  the  care  and  labour  bestowed  upon  it  have  met 
with  due  recognition,  and  to  prove  that  it  will  continue  fully  to  maintain  its  established 
position  as  a  standard  lexicon  of  the  English  language,  and  as  a  work  of  the  highest  utility 
for  the  purposes  of  general  reference  and  everyday  requirement. 

DISTINCTIVE   POINTS. 
To  sum  up  the  chief  points  of  this  edition— 

I.   It  is  the  latest  revised  dictionary,  and  has  a  supplement  of  many  thousand  new  words. 

II.   It  contains  more  words,  exclusive  of  compound  and  obsolete  words,  than  any  other  English 
dictionary. 

III.  The  pronunciation  is  explained  on  a  plan  which  is  simplicity  itself. 

IV.  It  gives  the  pronunciation  and  the  meaning  of  the  word  as  recognized  to-day. 
V.   It  has  more  illustrations  than  any  other  English  dictionary. 

VI.  It  has  full-page  plates  (coloured  and  otherwise),  which  are  an  outstanding  feature  of  the  work. 
No  other  English  dictionary  contains  full-page  plates. 
VII.   It  has  clear  type,  beautifully  printed  on  line  paper,  and  is  substantially  and  elegantly  bound. 

VIII.   It  has  a  specially  prepared  Supplement  issued  with  each  volume,  and  not,  as  is  usually  the 
case,  relegated  to  the  end  of  the  complete  work. 
IX.   It  has  a  very  full  Appendix,  probably  the  best  and  finest  given  with  any  dictionary  in  the  world. 
X.  It  is  sold  on  a  plan  at  once  acceptable  and  convenient,  within  the  reach  of  all,  and  the  price  is 
very  moderate. 

"The  Imperial  Dictionary",  says  the  St.  James'  Gazette,  "is  a  work  which  fairly 
deserves  the  epithet  of  monumental.  It  is  really  what  it  professes  to  be — 'a  complete 
encyclopaedic  lexicon,  literary,  scientific,  and  technological'.  In  other  words,  it  is  the  best 
dictionary  of  its  kind  in  the  English  language,  and  its  kind  is  the  best." 

"We  have  no  hesitation  in  saying",  writes  the  Spectator,  "that  it  will  prove  a  most 
thorough  piece  of  workmanship,  and  that  among  reference-books  of  its  class  it  will  hold 
the  first  place,  both  as  an  authority  and  a  source  of  instruction  and  entertainment." 

"The  encyclopedic  method  of  treatment  which  has  been  adopted",  remarks  the 
Athenmiin,  "will  be  found  of  the  greatest  service,  affording  as  it  does  to  the  reader  the 
advantages  of  the  ordinary  dictionary  combined  with  those  of  the  encyclopedia." 

The  Sf.  Jame^  Gazette  says :  — "  The  encyclopaedic  part  is  executed  with  great  skill 
and  accuracy;  and  the  genius  of  the  editor  has  been  exercised  with  the  power  and  precision 
of  a  hydraulic  press  upon  the  enormous  masses  of  facts  witli  which  he  has  had  to  deal". 


Prospectus  of  any  Book  post  free. 


The  Gresham  Publishing  Company. 


The  Cabinet  of 
Irish  Literature: 


Selections  from  the  Works  of  the  Chief 
Poets,  Orators,  and  Prose  Writers  of 
Ireland.  Edited  by  Charles  A.  Read,  f.r.h.s., 
and  Katharine  Tynan  Hinkson.  In  4  vol- 
umes, super-royal  8vo,  cloth  extra,  gilt  edges,  price  Ss.  6d.  net  each. 


Coulson  Kernahan 


As  there  is  an  Irish  Nationality,  so  there  is  an  Irish  Literature,  in 
which  that  Nationality  has  found  expression.  And  what  a  magnifi- 
cent Literature  it  is !  how  brilliant  the  roll  of  Irish  writers  from  Swift, 
Steele,  and  Goldsmith,  to  Sheridan,  Grattan,  Moore,  and  the  score  of 
gifted  men  and  women  who  are  identified  with  the  present  renaissance 
of  Irish  letters! 

The  Cabinet  of  Ik  ism  Literature  is  an  attempt  to  give  every 
Irishman,  every  Irish  household,  a  share  in  the  priceless  treasures 
with  which  the  literary  genius  of  the  race  has  enriched  mankind. 

It  brings  within  the  compass  of  a  single  great  work  a  representative 
selection  of  all  that  is  best  in  Irish  Literature.  Not,  be  it  said,  the 
old  Irish  Literature  in  the  old  Irish  tongue ;  of  that  most  is  unknown 
to  the  people  itself,  though  a  good  deal  of  it,  in  translation,  will  be 
found  in  this  book.  By  Irish  Literature  is  meant  the  Literature  read 
and  understood  by  the  Irishmen  of  the  present  day — the  expression 
of  the  ideas  they  really  feel,  of  the  life  they  truly  live,  in  Mayo,  in 
Limerick,  in  Cork,  and  in  Deny. 

It  is  a  selection  made  without  fear  or  favour,  free  from  any  bias, 
religious,  political,  or  social.     Merit  is  the  only  passport  to  its  pages. 

It  gives,  in  brief  pointed  biographical  notices,  the  life-history  of 
every  great  Irish  writer.  We  are  enabled  to  realize  the  personality  of  the  man  as  well  as  appreciate  the 
qualities  of  his  work. 

It  deals  not  only  with  the  past  but  with  the  present ;  and  it  is  the  only  work  that  brings  home  to  us  by 
illustrative  e.xtracts  the  great  revival  in  Irish  Literature  that  is  now  taking  place.  W.  B.  Yeats,  Douglas 
Hyde,  George  Bernard  Shaw,  Nora  Hopper,  Seumas  MacManus,  Richard  Ashe  King,  George  Egerton,  Moira 
O'Neill,  are  a  few  among  the  many  scores  of  modern  writers  whose  works  are  represented  in  the  Cabinet. 

No  Irishman  who  is  proud  of  his  nationality  can  afford  to  be  without  a  work  which  thus  focuses  the 
whole  intellectual  activity  of  the  race.  To  the  younger  generation  it  will  be  an  ine.xhaustible  source  of  in- 
spiration, a  priceless  influence  in  forming  their  taste,  in  moulding  their  character— in  a  word,  in  perpetuating 
those  qualities  which  now,  as  in  the  past,  are  associated  with  the  name  of  Irishman. 

The  Cabinet  was  originally  planned  by  Mr.  Charles  Anderson  Read,  but  this  .iccomplishcd  Irish  poet  and 
novelist  did  not  live  to  see  the  fruition  of  his  hopes.  His  work  was 
completed  by  Mr.  T.  P.  O'Connor,  under  whose  auspices  the  first 
edition  was  issued.  Now,  after  the  lapse  of  nearly  a  quarter  of  a 
century,  the  time  has  come  for  a  new  edition  of  this  monumental  work, 
which  shall  take  due  account  of  the  e.xtraordinary  activity  in  Irish 
letters  during  the  intervening  years.  Under  the  able  editorship  of 
Miss  Katharine  Tynan  (Mrs.  Katharine  Tynan  Hinkson),  herself  one 
of  Ireland's  most  distinguished  writers,  the  work  has  been  thoroughly 
revised  and  brought  down  to  the  present  hour. 

In  its  get-up  it  is  all  that  a  book  of  its  great  importance  should  be. 
The  illustrations  are  many  and  of  the  highest  artistic  value.  Some  of 
the  most  eminent  black-and-white  artists  of  the  day,  including  John 
H.  Bacon,  Charles  M.  Sheldon,  W.  Rainey,  R.I.,  G.  P.  Jacomb- 
Hood,  R.I.,  and  W.  H.  Margetson,  have  been  commissioned  to  illus- 
trate typical  scenes  from  the  masterpieces  of  our  literature,  and  these 
drawings,  rendered  by  the  latest  processes  of  photographic  reproduc- 
tion, and  printed  on  specially  prepared  paper,  add  an  unique  charm 
to  the  work.  The  Cabinet  is  furtiier  embellished  with  a  large  num- 
ber of  photographs  of  the  most  eminent  Irish  writers;  and  the  cover 
design,  in  gold  upon  green  cloth,  is  the  work  of  Talwin  Morris,  the 
well-known  designer. 


F.  Frankfort  Moore 


Prospectus  of  any  Book  post  free. 


The  Gresham  Publishing  Company. 


TThf*     RnnW  an  Encvclop/Edia  of  all  matters  relating  to  the 

1  lie     ULfUlV  House  AND  Household  Management.  Produced  under 

|-|-f     "f  h  P      H  O  rn  P         ^'^^  general  editorship  of  H .  C.  Davidson,  assisted  by  over 
1  l^llie*       one  hundred  specialists.    Copiously  illustrated  by  coloured 
and  black-and-white  plates  and  engravings  in  the  text.     In  4  volumes,  super-royal  8vo,  cloth, 
with  artistic  design,  price  ^2,  2s.  net.    Also  in  8  divisional  volumes,  cloth,  price  5^.  net  each. 

Thk  Book  of  the  Home  is  intended  to  form  a  complete  work  of  reference  on  all  subjects  connected 
with  household  management.  No  efforts  have  been  spared  to  ensure  that  every  matter  bearing  upon  the 
Home  and  Home  Life  shall  receive  full  and  sufficient  treatment,  and  that  the  information  given  shall  be 
reliable  and  in  the  best  sense  of  the  phrase  up-to-date. 

A  few  among  over  one  hundred  specialists  who  have  contributed  to  the  work : 


Mrs.  Ada  S.  Ballin,  Editor  of  Baby— the  Mother's 

Magazine,  and  of  Woman/iood. 
Miss  Bertha  Banner,  Training  Teacher  of  Sewing 

and    Dressmaking   at    the  Liverpool   Technical 

College  for  Women. 
Mr.    A.    Black,   C.E.  ,   Architect,   Author  of  First 

Principles  of  Bnilding. 
Mrs.    Davidson,    Author   of  Dainties,     Wliat  our 

Daughters  ca?i  do  for  themselves,  &c. 
Miss  J.  Forster,  Principal  of  the  Cheshire  County 

Council  Dairy  Institute. 
Mrs.  H.  R.  Haweis  (the  late),  Author  of  The  Art 

of  Decoration,  The  Art  of  Beauty,  &c. 
Miss   Helena  Head,   Principal  of  the  Liverpool 

Girls'     School     for     Secondary     Education     in 

Domestic  Science,  and  Author  of  the  Manual  of 

Housewifery. 
Mrs.  A.  Hodgson,  Home  Decorator  to  The  Lady. 
Mr.    R.    Keith    Johnston,   Author  of  Household 

Difficulties  and  How  to  overcome  Them. 


Miss  Gkktiu'DK  J.  King,  Secretary  to  the  Society 
for  Promoting  the  Employment  of  Women. 

Miss  E.  E.  Mann,  Head  Teacher  at  the  Liverpool 
Training  School  of  Cookery. 

Colonel  M.  Moore-Lane,  Contributor  to  the  Field 
and  other  agricultural  papers. 

Mrs.  C.  S.  Peel,  Dress  and  Household  Editor  of 
Hearth  and  Home,  and  Author  of  The  New 
Home. 

Miss.  B.  SiBTiioKPE  PooLEV,  Lecturer  to  the  Liver- 
pool Ladies'  Sanitary  Association. 

Miss  Rankin,  Head  Teacher  of  Laundry  Work  at 
the  Liverpool  Technical  College  for  Women. 

Miss  Florence  Stacpoole,  Lecturer  to  the  National 
Health  Society  and  the  Councils  of  Technical 
Education,  and  Author  of  Ha?idbook  of  House- 
keeping for  Small  Incomes,  &c. 

Mr.  David  Tollemache,  late  editor  of  The  Chej 
and  Connoisseur. 


The  contents  of  The  Book  of  the  Home  may  be  grouped  under  four  heads.  The  first  deals  with 
all  matters  concerning  the  House^from  the  choice  of  its  site  to  the  least  of  its  internal  decorations.  The 
householder  is  instructed  in  the  laws  regarding  landlord  and  tenant,  and  counselled  in  the  important 
matters  of  sanitation  and  ventilation,  heating  and  lighting,  and  the  stocking  and  management  of 
the  garden.  The  housekeeper  is  advised  as  to  furnishing,  everything  necessary  for  the  comfort 
and  adornment  of  a  well-equipped  house  being  described  in  detail,  hints  being  also  given  regarding 
removals,  painting  and  papering,  artistic  decoration,  arrangement  of  linen  and  store  cupboards,  &c. 

In  the  second  the  daily  routine  of  the  Household  is  considered— the  duties  of  the  servants,  their 
wages,  their  leisure  and  pleasures,  the  management  of  the  kitchen,  laundry,  and  store-room.  Plain  and 
fancy  cooking  receive  due  attention,  recipes  being  given  of  a  large  variety  of  dishes,  and  suggestions 
made  for  breakfast,  lunch,  afternoon-tea,  dinner,  and  supper.  A  number  of  menus  are  added  suitable 
for  the  different  seasons.     Invalid  cookery  also  has  its  special  section. 

In  the  third  are  discussed  the  legal  and  customary  duties,  and  the  occupations  and  pastimes, 
of  Ma.ster  and  Mistress,  the  former  being  instructed  as  regards  insurance  and  the  making  of  a  will, 
and  the  smaller  matters  of  carving,  the  care  of  the  wine-cellar,  and  the  inspection  of  garden  and  stables, 
while  the  latter  is  advised  as  to  account-keeping,  payments,  shopping,  and  innumerable  other  matters 
connected  with  her  duties  as  Mistress.  Other  subjects  treated  under  this  head  are  dress,  home 
occupations,  visiting  and  entertaining,  and  indoor  and  outdoor  amusements. 

In  the  fourth  sound,  systematic,  and  practical  advice  is  given  as  to  the  management,  in  health 
and  sickness,  and  the  education,  of  children,  and  also  on  such  important  subjects  as  occupation? 
for  boys  and  girls,  the  ceremonies  necessary  on  the  coming  out  of  a  daughter,  and  the  preparations 
and  formalities  necessary  before  and  after  a  marriage. 

The  Book  of  the  Home  will  thus  be  at  once  an  indispensable  ally  to  the  young  bride  and  the 
novice  in  housekeeping,  and  a  valuable  work  of  reference  to  the  more  experienced. 


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Thtf^     IVafllffll      HicfnrV       ^^^^  Animal    Life   of  the  World    in   its 
1  lie     l^d-tUld-l      I  ll^VKJl  J        various  Aspects  and    Relations.      By  J. 

^  A  n  f  m  fl  1c  •  ^^"  AiNswoRTH  Davis,  m.a.,  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge, 
^^  /\lllIllCll&  •  ^^^  Qf  University  College,  Aberystwyth.  Profusely  illus- 
trated with  full-page  colour  and  black-and-white  plates,  and  engravings  in  the  text,  by 
eminent  animal  artists.     In  8  half-volumes,  cloth  e.xtra,  price  js.  net  each. 

While  the  sum  of  human  knowledge  is  gigantic  now  as  compared  with  what  it  was  a  hundred 
years  ago,  in  the  department  of  Natural  History  the  books  upon  which  the  great  majority  of  us 
must  depend  have  undergone  practically  no  change.  The  general  Natural  History  still  follows  the 
lines  adopted  by  Goldsmith  in  his  famous  and  delightful  Earth  and  Animated  Nature.  That  is  to  say, 
they  are  little  more  than  classified  catalogues  of  animals,  taking  up  in  succession  the  various  groups  and 
individuals,  and  describing  them  one  after  another,  each  as  standing  by  itself.  This  is  not  what 
the  intelligent  reader  of  the  present  day  requires.  He  must  be  put  in  a  position  to  take  a  comprehensive 
grasp  of  the  subject;  he  demands  a  competent  guide,  not  a  directory,  however  accurate. 

It  is  with  this  end  in  view  that  The  Natural  History  of  Animals  has  been  compiled.  It  treats 
this  great  subject  on  essentially  modern  lines,  giving  an  accurate  and  vivid  account  of  the  habits, 
relationships,  mutual  interdependence,  adaptation  to  environment,  &c.,  of  the  living  animals  of  the 
world. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  the  production  of  such  a  work  demanded  a  man  who  has  devoted  his  life  to 
the  study  of  biology  and  zoology,  and  who  at  the  same  time  is  a  gifted  writer  and  expounder.  This  rare 
combination  has  been  found  in  the  person  of  Prof.  J.  R.  AiNSWORTH  Davis,  m.a.,  of  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge,  and  of  University  College,  Aberystwyth,  the  author  of  the  present  work.  Prof.  Davis 
is  well  known  to  naturalists  as  an  ardent  worker  in  Natural  History,  particularly  in  the  field  of  marine 
zoology.  He  is  a  very  distinguished  graduate  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  the  chief  scientific  school 
in  Britain,  perhaps  in  the  world,  and  has  done  a  great  deal  of  literary  work,  -both  scientific  and  in  other 
directions. 

Briefly,  the  object  of  Prof.  Davis's  work  is  to  give  in  a  readable  form  and  in  non-technical  language 
.a  general  survey  of  the  whole  animal  world  from  the  stand-point  of  modern  science — and  the  work  may 
fairly  claim  to  be  a  Natural  History  on  a  new  plan,  the  first  comprehensive  work  in  English  of  its  own 
special  kind.  Formerly  Natural  History  had  much  the  character  of  a  miscellaneous  aggregate  of 
disconnected  facts,  but  hardly  any  fact  or  feature  connected  with  any  animal  can  now  be  considered 
as  isolated  from  others;  and  animals  as  a  whole  must  be  looked  upon  as  interrelated  in  the  most 
surprising  manner  both  with  one  another  and  with  their  surroundings. 

Every  household  library  should  contain  a  Bible,  a  Dictionary,  an  Encyclopedia,  and  a  work  on 
Natural  History.  This  is  the  "irreducible  minimum";  other  books  we  may  have,  these  we  must. 
For  The  Natural  History  of  Animals  it  may  fairly  be  claimed  that  it  has  a  better  title  than 
any  other  work  to  become  the  Natural  History  for  the  Household.  It  is  a  work  in  which  the 
adult  reader  will  find  a  never-failing  mine  of  information,  while  the  younger  members  of  the  family 
will  delight  in  its  wealth  of  illustration,  and  its  store  of  interesting  and  suggestive  anecdote. 

To  teachers  The  Natural  History  of  Animals  may  be  regarded  as  indispensable.  More 
than  usual  attention  has  of  late  been  directed  to  the  important  subject  of  Nature-study;  and  in  this 
respect  the  appearance  of  Prof.  Davis's  work  could  scarcely  have  been  more  fitly  timed.  In  the  domain 
of  Natural  History  it  is  pre-eminently  the  book  for  the  purpose.  Its  clear  and  orderly  arrangement 
of  facts,  its  masterly  grasp  of  general  principles,  its  comprehensiveness  of  scope  and  simplicity  of  style, 
combined  with  the  most  absolute  scientific  accuracy,  render  this  work  an  invaluable  book  of  reference 
for  those  who  aspire  to  teach  Nature-study  on  up-to-date  principles. 

The  Illustrations,  as  befits  a  work  of  such  importance,  are  on  the  most  lavish  scale.  A  large  number 
are  in  colour,  reproductions,  by  the  latest  processes  of  colour  engraving,  of  exquisite  pictures  by  the  most 
eminent  animal  draughtsmen.  In  illustrating  the  work  talent  has  been  sought  wherever  it  was  to  be 
found  ;  and  the  list  of  artists  is  representative  of  several  nationalities.  A  large  number  of  the  designs  are 
the  work  of  Mr.  A.  Fairfax  Muckley,  who  is  probably  unsurpassed  in  the  capacity  to  depict  living 
creatures  with  absolute  fidelity  to  detail  without  sacrificing  the  general  artistic  effect.  Friedrich 
Specht,  one  of  the  most  eminent  German  animal  painters  of  the  past  century,  is  represented  in  The 
Natural  History  of  Animals  by  many  of  his  best  designs  in  colour  and  black-and-white. 
W.  Kuhnert,  another  German  artist  whose  work  is  universally. admired ;  and  M.  A.  Koekkoek, 
the  talented  Dutch  painter,  are  also  among  those  who  have  assisted  in  the  embellishment  of  the  work. 
An  important  feature  is  the  series  of  diagrammatic  designs  showing  the  structure  of  certain  typical 
animals,   specially  drawn  under  the  direction  of  Prof.  Davis. 

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1  he       iViOCiern       C3.rpenter,      practice.        Prepared    under    the 

I      •  nr^A  cdiKjrsliip  of  G.  LisTER  SUTCLIFFE,  Architect,  Asso- 

J^-'incr^       CtllCl  ciateofthe  Royal  Institute  of  British  Architects,  Mem- 

/^  «  •  ^^^2k-f  l\l\  *jk  Vr C^f  •  ^^^'  °^  ^^^  Sanitary  Institute,  editor  and  joint-author  of 
w3.DineL=iyicllvCr.  "Modem  House-Construction",  author  of  "Concrete: 
Its  Nature  and  Uses",  &c.  With  contributions  from  many  speciaHsts.  Illustrated  by  a 
series  of  about  loo  separately-printed  plates  and  looo  figures  in  the  text.  In  8  divisional 
volumes,  super-royal  quarto,  handsomely  bound  in  cloth,  with  cover  design  by  Mr.  Talwin 
Morris,  price  ^s.  6d.  net  each.     In  complete  sets  only. 

In  preparing  The  Modern  Carpenter  the  editor  has  had  the  great  advantage  of  working  upon 
the  basis  of  Newlands's  Carpenter  and  Joiners  Assistant,  which  for  nearly  half  a  century  has  been 
accepted  as  a  standard  authority  on  the  subjects  of  which  it  treats,  and  for  many  years  has  been 
recommended  by  the  Royal  Institute  of  British  Architects  as  a  text-book  for  the  examination  of  that 
society.  And  yet  in  the  present  work  it  has  been  possible  to  preserve  only  a  very  small  part  of 
Newlands's  treatise,  invaluable  though  this  has  been  to  two  generations  of  craftsmen.  While  the 
fundamental  features  of  arrangement  and  method  which  distinguish  this  famous  work  have  been 
retained,  the  matter  has  had  to  be  entirely  rewritten,  and  many  new  sections  have  been  added,  on 
subjects  not  touched  upon  in  the  older  work,  with  which  the  carpenter  of  the  present  day  requires  to  be 
familiar. 

In  the  new  book,  indeed,  the  old  foundations  that  have  stood  the  test  of  half  a  century  of  practical  use 
have  been  retained,  but  the  superstructure  is  wholly  new. 

The  lesson  to  be  learned  from  this  fact  is  not  far  to  seek.  It  is  that  the  modern  carpenter  requires  a 
far  wider  expert  knowledge  than  sufficed  his  predecessor.  The  development  of  wood-working 
machinery,  the  introduction  of  new  kinds  of  timber,  improvements  in  the  design  of  structures,  the  more 
thorough  testing  of  timbers,  and  progress  in  the  various  industries  with  which  Carpentry,  Joinery,  and 
Cabinet-making  are  intimately  allied,  have  all  helped  to  render  the  craft  more  complex.  The  carjjenter 
of  the  present  day  has  no  use  for  the  old  "rule  of  thumb"  methods;  his  calling  is  both  an  art  and  a 
science,  and  knowledge,  knowledge,  and  again  knowledge  is  the  primary  condition  of  success. 

The  editor  of  The  Moukrn  Cakpentek,  Mr.  G.  Lister  Sutcliffe,  Associate  of  the  Royal  Institute 
of  Architects,  needs  no  introduction  to  practical  men ;  his  name  is  already  well  known  not  only 
through  his  professional  position  in  the  architectural  world,  but  through  his  editorship  of  Modern  House- 
Construction,  a  work  which,  although  issued  only  a  few  years  ago,  has  already  become  a  standard  book 
of  reference.  Mr.  Sutcliffe's  large  experience  has  enabled  him  to  enlist  the  services  of  a  highly- 
qualified  staff  of  experts,  whose  special  knowledge,  acquired  through  long  years  of  practical  work,  is 
now  placed  at  the  disposal  of  every  member  of  the  craft.  The  first  condition  in  selecting  the  contri- 
butors to  the  work  was  that  they  should  be  practical  men,  not  only  possessing  the  indispensable 
knowledge,  but  having  the  ability  to  impart  it.  The  result  is  that  within  the  eight  divisional-volumes  of 
this  work  we  have  a  treatise  on  every  branch  of  the  craft,  distinguished  by  four  outstanding  qualities: — 
It  is  (i)  complete,  (2)  clear,  (3)  practical,  and  (4)  up-to-date. 

An  idea  of  the  scope  of  The  Modern  Carpenter  may  be  gathered  from  the  fact  that  while  its 
predecessor,  The  Carpenter  and  Joiner's  Assistant,  comprised  only  eight  sections,  the  new  work 
includes  no  fewer  than  sixteen.  A  glance  at  these  will  show  that  the  w  ork  covers  the  whole  field ; 
it  is  a  complete  encyclopcTedia  upon  every  subject  that  bears  upon  the  everyday  work  of  the  practical  man. 


IX.  Staircases  and  Handrailing. 
X.  Air-tight  Case-Making. 
XI.  Cabinet-Making. 
XII.  Wood-Carving. 

XIII.  Shop  Management. 

XIV.  Estimating. 
XV.  Building  Law. 

XVI.  Index,  Glossary,  &e. 


I.  Styles  of  Architecture. 
II.  Woods:  Their  Characteristics  and  Uses. 

III.  Wood-working  Tools  and  Machinery. 

IV.  Drawing  and  Drawing  Instruments. 
V.  Practical  Geometry. 

VI.  Strength  of  Timber  and  Timber  Framing. 
VII.  Carpentry. 
VIII.  Joinery  and  Ironmongery. 

The  Illustrations  are  not  the  least  of  the  many  notable  features  of  this  great  undertaking.  The  work 
is  embellished  in  the  first  place  with  about  100  full-page  plates,  reproduced,  some  in  colours,  by  the 
most  approved  processes  of  mechanical  engraving,  and  printed  on  specially-prepared  paper.  In  addition 
to  this  unique  collection  there  are  no  fewer  than  1000  diagrams  and  designs  in  the  body  of  the  work. 
No  trouble  or  expense  has  indeed  been  spared  to  procure  illustrations  where  these  could  elucidate  the 
text. 

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Charles  Dickens' 
Novels. 


The  Imperial  Edition  of  the  Novels  of  Charles 
Dickens,  in  15  volumes,  large  square  8vo,  cloth 
extra,  gilt  top,  price  4s.  6d.  net  each  volume. 


An  Ideal  Issue.  One  Novel,  One  Volume.  Despite 
varying  lengths,  the  paper,  &c.,  is  so  adjusted  that  each  volume 
is  uniform  in  thickness  and  size. 

The  Cheapest  Edition.  The  price  of  each  volume  is  4^.  6c/. 
net,  making  the  edition  the  cheapest  of  the  best  editiots. 

Sumptuously  Bound.  The  cloth  is  of  the  finest  and  is  im- 
perial red  in  colour.  The  embellishments  (produced  in  gold) 
are  an  appropriate  design  of  national  arms  and  imperial  em- 
blems by  the  eminent  designer,  Talwin  Morris. 

Illustrations  a  Unique  Feature.  Every  picture  drawn  spe- 
cially at  enormous  cost  for  this  "Imperial"  edition  by  the  best 
known  and  most  celebrated  Artists  of  to-day. 

George  Gissing's  Masterly  Study.  A  literary  character 
study,  the  work  of  this  great  authority,  forms  one  of  the  volumes 
of  this  issue,  and  is  illustrated  with  pictures  of  some  of  the 
quaint  old  hostelries  and  places  made  famous  by  Dickens,  and 
is  altogether  an  invaluable  addition  to  this  issue. 

Presentation  Portrait.  To  every  subscriber  to  this  edition 
will  be  presented  with  the  last  volume  a  magnificent  Photo- 
gravure of  Charles  Dickens.  It  is  printed  on  the  finest  plate 
paper,  22  inches  by  30  inches,  and  has  been  specially  engraved 
for  this  edition. 

A  List  of  the  Novels. 

The  following  is  a  list  of  the  volumes  in  the  Imperial  Edition: — 

The  Pickwick  Papers. 
Oliver  Twist. 
Nicholas  Nickleby. 
Martin  Chuzzlewit. 
The  Old  Curiosity  Shop 
Barnaby  Rudge. 
David  Copperfield. 
Bleak  House. 
Sketches  by  Boz. 

Hard  Times  and  Master  Humphrey's  Clock. 
Christmas  Books. 
Dombey  and  Son. 
Little  Dorrit. 
A  Tale  of  Two  Cities. 
Charles  Dickens:   A  Critical  Study. 
By  George  Gissing. 


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DATE  DUE                           1 

1 

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